


Fettered Amongst Our Hands

by writergal85



Category: Jane Eyre - All Media Types, Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 30,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergal85/pseuds/writergal85
Summary: What would have happened if Jane had returned to Thornfield before the fire, with Bertha still living? The title is taken from my favorite passage in the novel.
Relationships: Jane Eyre & Edward Rochester, Jane Eyre/Edward Rochester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	1. Alice Departs

The coach was later than usual, but Alice Fairfax was thankful for it. She had seen over forty years of her life pass at Thornfield Hall and she had little desire to leave now, with master in such trouble– trouble and danger that he would not admit to himself.

He had barely acknowledged her when she came to him a few nights ago requesting leave to tend to her sister in -shire, suffering from her husband's recent death. Her simple inquiry was met only with a curt nod of the head and a barked request for more brandy. He had drained the bottle again the previous night and would drink himself into a slumber by the dying fire that night as well, waking with the early morning hours when the ashes grew cold to saddle his horse and ride through the moors, searching for her.

He did not speak of her except in dreams. Alice had always been a heavy sleeper, but since the wedding and the unmasking of the "ghost of Thornfield", she had found it hard to sleep unmolested, awakening often in the early morning hours to the master's anguished cries of "Jane! Jane! Jane!"

Despite the fragile friendship she had formed with the young governess, and the good she had done both for the master and for Adele – who had been sent to school mere days after the ill-fated wedding – Alice Fairfax almost wished Jane Eyre had never crossed the threshold of Thornfield Hall, because then she would have never had to leave. The housekeeper knew why Jane had to leave.

Alice had known something of the master's past indiscretions – the mistresses scattered in lavish hotels across Europe, kept in riches and style, and then discarded. After she first learned of Miss Eyre's and the master's impending marriage, she had worried for Jane and tried to warn her. She was so young, but would hear nothing of their differences in age and experience.

But for the master to keep a wife – a lunatic, but a wife nonetheless, bound the laws of holy matrimony – and still attempt to marry another was something Alice Fairfax had never suspected Mr. Rochester to be capable of. The scheme was more characteristic of his late elder brother or father, than of the sensitive, passionate younger son. In all her years caring for the family, she had always felt a strong affinity towards the youngest Rochester. But now she had never been so ashamed for her good master – and astonished that he would go to such horrific lengths to keep Miss Eyre. He was truly a man bewitched; as mad as his imprisoned wife.

Grace Poole remained to care for the unfortunate Mrs. Rochester. It seemed a strange nightmare that such a woman – more creature than human – could carry the Rochester name and be the mistress of Thornfield. Alice had always thought Grace to be an odd, singular sort of person and often quietly wondered why the master kept her around – but it wasn't her place to question. Now she was grateful for Grace's presence, no matter what her predilection for drink. Alice doubted she could care for both Bertha and the master, rapidly spiraling into his own form of insanity. She felt guilty, but was glad to not to have that millstone round her neck.

The coach arrived and she slowly climbed in, age betraying her knees as the man loaded her trunk. Despite her troubles, she was sorry to leave Thornfield, she thought, as the coach started and she watched the stately hall shrink into miniature.

But the Thornfield she had called home had left some weeks ago, along with a certain governess.

She almost fancied she saw Jane's small, cloaked form walking down Hay Lane as they passed – but then, she was old and the Hall's nightmares were enough to entice visions from the soundest of minds.


	2. Jane Returns

I stepped to the roadside to let the carriage pass. It was the same carriage that months ago had borne me away from Thornfield Hall to Whitcross, and then to wandering the never-ending desolate blankness of the moors, until Providence led me to the doorstep of St. John, Diana and Mary. I had sought to escape my past and now here I was, carried back to it. Back to Thornfield. Back to him.

I dared not call him Edward, my dear master – anything less formal than "Mr. Rochester" or "sir" – aloud.

Despite our wondrous connection and that initial flush of longing when I heard his spirit calling out to mine – "Jane! Jane! Jane!" and I answered, "I am coming! Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" – despite the fact that I had come, cold reason took over as I approached the great house.

I repeated to myself that I couldn't stay away, for he was mine – and I was his – in every way.

Every way except that which the world would recognize – which God would ordain as true, which I know is right.

The courtyard was unnaturally silent upon my approach. Places once filled with the murmurs of servants, Adele's bright chatter, and most welcome of all, Pilot's bark and the clatter of hooves signifying that he was home – all vanished. Where was Mrs. Fairfax? Sophie? Grace?

A low, guttural moan pierced through the hollow wind like an old memory and I knew at least that there was still one inhabitant at Thornfield Hall. There – her scarf still billowed from the third story window, my first and last warning of the dangers of my only home.

It did not strike me as it used to. The blood-red fabric seemed more worn, tattered, forgotten. She should not be locked up there, I thought, madness or none. I resolved to talk to Edward – make him see reason, awaken his compassionate nature. If he was still here.

I longed to hear the sound of his rich baritone. To have him utter scores upon thousands of fairy names – "Witch! Changeling! Unearthly thing!" And to see his rare smile, the one that reaches his eyes, affirming his love for me.

If he was still here. If he – if he still loved me.

Dear reader, I prayed that he had forgiven me for my abandonment in the night. I could never hope to be his wife. But I hoped he had not forgotten me as a friend.

_________________________

There is a girl in the courtyard. I see her approach, while I'm standing in front of the mirror in my red dress. Grace does not see her. She is asleep, after counting gold coins again, and I was glad, for I only get to have my red dress when she is asleep.

But now the girl is here and Grace will wake up to fetch the man and things will be as they were before.

I cry out for her to stop. She shouldn't be here. It is dangerous. She turns, sees me, I think, but doesn't stop and goes to the gardens.

It is bad luck to be here – to be near the man that hates. I have tried to escape before, but he catches me every time. He and Grace always stop me.

She, this girl, returns to this prison on her own, when she should go away. I will tell her to go away. 


	3. Looking for Mr. Rochester

I turned from my walk in the gardens to enter the great house. I walked slowly down the familiar halls, now empty and barren. Though I was anxious to see my master, the austerity of my former home tempered my feverish thoughts. I found myself tiptoeing in whispered steps, lest I disturb the silence – a silence that was neither tranquil nor calm, but like my tightly strung nerves, like a bated breath.

I came to the closed door of my old chamber. The room that I had hurried back to the night of that fateful fire, strangely burning with a sensation I did not recognize – but wanted to relive for hours on end. The room where I had sat in cold worry and fear for my master's safety, clutching the kerchief spotted red with his blood, waiting for my help to be summoned. The room where I once stood a pale and anxious bride, smiling naively at the idea of being so close to Edward. I couldn't stop smiling . . .

The room where I lay on the bed not even an hour later, back in my drab Lowood frocks, bride's costume – for it had all been a farce – hung back in the clothes press, while he sat outside the door, pleading for me to come out and listen to him.

I rested my hand on the doorknob, but couldn't bring myself to turn it and open the door.

I didn't have to – it suddenly swung open and I stood face to face with Grace Poole.

I find the room where he is. She is not with him yet. I am not too late.

He sleeps alone in that chair every night. I know, when I come and see him, when he can't see me, when I am close enough to freedom, as close as I am now.

He cries like a babe in sleep sometimes. He looks like he's about to cry now.

She will come in and comfort him. I will stand in the doorway and stop her, for I must. It is dangerous, too dangerous, for things to be as they once were.

Footsteps – Grace is coming! I run out and seek a hiding spot in a nearby chamber. I will find her before she reaches him and tell her. They must not find her before me.

"Grace!" I gasped, all breath rushing out of me, as I remembered why the wedding hadn't taken place.

Bertha had come to my room before and I wondered with a strange thrill if I was about to meet the bride of Thornfield Hall again.

Grace did not seem surprised to see me, staring at me with the same beady determination that had made me fear her presence before.

"Miss Eyre," she grunted, "I see you have returned."

"Yes." I stated, meeting her cold stare with one I hoped was just as determined.

She seemed to understand and nodded. "The master will be in his study, as usual this time of day."

"Thank you."

I untied my bonnet and cloak, but hesitated before going into the room.

"She's not in there," Grace remarked. "She's somewhere in the hall, but not in there. I've been looking for her. She goes in there, sometimes to– "

She stopped suddenly when I met her gaze.

"The master is in his study," she finished seriously, leaving the room before I could question her.

The study was nearly dark when I entered, the fire having burnt down to cold ashes some time ago. I could barely make out a hunched form in one of the armchairs – Edward, asleep. I approached him slowly. A glass and a nearly empty decanter rested on the table at his elbow. He looked thin, ragged, his face, hollow and hair, a tangled mane. I felt a pang of shame at his obvious suffering, restless nights. Even now he shivered and tossed in an uncomfortable slumber. I picked up an afghan flung across the back of a chair to cover his shivering form.

He woke with a start at the unexpected weight and warmth.

"Who there? Jane?" came his hoarse whisper. His eyes widen frightfully, like a wild man and he clutched at me desperately.

"Jane! Jane! Spectre that you are – please do not leave me just yet, do not vanish – stay and let me pretend for a while."

"Pretend? Why I am real, sir– no spectre or dream – but real, flesh and blood. Here, be comforted," I whispered, taking the cold hand that gripped my arm and pressing it to my lips. His disbelief, his worry brought guilty tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat.

"I see you with clear eyes, but I can scarcely believe it is you, Jane. Janet, come a little closer – let me be sure," he begged in a whisper, standing shakily from the chair and throwing off the coverlet.

"I am here, sir," I said, stepping into his grasping arms. " You need not be afraid. I will not abandon you again. Here, take up the blanket – your hands are freezing. I am sure that you must be the ghost, not I."

"You are all the warmth I need, Janet," he said gruffly, tightening his arms around my waist and pulling me close to bury his face in my hair. I felt his warm tears soak my hair and face, mingling with my own.

A low moan floated into the room from down the hall, breaking the silence of our embrace.


	4. Near Another Friend

_I am caught! Too late! Too late!_

Startled, I remembered my place. I cleared my throat, dashed my tears and attempted to leave his tight embrace, but Mr. Rochester would not release me.

"Is it you? I can scarcely believe it is really you. I searched for day..." he rambled, drifting into incoherence, grasping at me tighter.

"It is I, sir," I stated, firmly, comfortingly, I hoped.

"Are you well? How have you been? Where have you been?" he demanded, his eyes becoming wilder. His grasping hands were clammy. I felt his forehead. It was burning hot.

"I have been well, though, I daresay, you are not. You're shaking and burning up. You've over exerted yourself too quickly. Sit down."

I led him to his chair. He sat down, but clung to my hand like a frightened child.

"Let me go, sir, only for a moment," I reassured him. "I will stoke the fire, then call Leah for a glass of water. You've had enough brandy. Are you hungry? I shall ask for some supper, if you like."

"Leah is not here, Jane," he said. "Nor Mrs. Fairfax, or a great deal of the servants."

I turned in concern from stirring the ashes on the hearth. Had they all left after she had been revealed? I felt the weight of my own abandonment grow heavier.

"Adele?" I asked, timidly, not wanting to ask about his–her, yet.

"At school–sent as was planned to be after the wed–" he stopped.

"Who is here?"

"It is only George and Mary now. And Grace," he added, bitingly.

He had no one. I had left him with no one.

"I will call for Mary, sir. You must have something."

Before he could protest, I rang for a servant and Mary appeared. She was not a little surprised to see me, I suppose, but did not remark on it and presently returned with my request of water and a small supper.

Mr. Rochester and I enjoyed most of the meal in a cordial silence. He asked me about my absence repeatedly, and I gave up a brief answer: I had been staying with family.

"But you have no family, Jane," he stated, raising his brow in surprise. I told him I had found them. I didn't elaborate on how, as I did not wish to cause him more distress and pain, but I described Diana, Mary and St. John and the tale of our discovered connection.

"And yet you leave this family to come back to a foolish old man, who resides in a ruined household, with only a few servants and a lunatic?" he said with a sad smile. "You would leave behind such friends?"

I did not know how I would or could help, only that something had brought me back to Thornfield and that I could not leave until I had figured out why I felt compelled to return. I could stay, as a helpmate and housekeeper, until I figured out what that was. I saw an opening to make my proposition. If it wasn't the answer, would at least put me near him for the present.

"I should like to be near another friend," I replied.

_Grace does not hold me forever and I run. I run back to her and will make her listen. I hope I am not too late!_

"Sir, you cannot care for all this yourself," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

"It is my cross to bear. We were all born to strive and endure, were we not?" he said, repeating words I had told him at our last meeting, not with a little bitterness.

"Friends can help each other to strive and endure," I argued, not ready to give into his despair.

"Help how, Jane? As a nursemaid to a lunatic?" he spat out venomously.

This was the second time he had spoken of her thus. I felt it was not right.

"You should not hate not her so, sir," I said, turning from him. "She cannot help being mad."

He did not reply.

"She does not deserve blame," I said again, staring into the fire. "She should not be despised."

"I have missed you, Jane," I heard him say in a broken whisper.

I turned to him from where I had been staring at the fire in silence for some time. The resigned grief and despair I saw on his face, the dead look in his eyes – the light gone as though his entire world had been engulfed in shadows – tore at my heart like a wild animal.

"I could stay with you, sir, as a friend, to help you, care for you," I said, going to him and taking his outstretched hand, not mentioning Bertha again.

The simple contact sent a curious thrill down my spine and into the pit of my stomach, where it settled uneasily, a tightly wound spring.

"Or, I could find some occupation nearby. Perhaps teaching in the village?" I continued, looking for distraction of this glorious tension.

But he did not respond, only continued to brush his thumb feather-light and rough across the inside of my wrist, staring at our hands entwined in the dim light.

"I have missed you, my Jane," he whispered again, pulling me still closer, claiming my other hand and looking up at me under drawn brows.

The air grew stifling, heavy. The fire had grown much too hot. I should send for someone to tend it.

But there was no one but me. And him. And her.

"You will not leave again?" His gaze was tender, pleading, inescapable.

"No, sir."


	5. Questions in the Night

_Grace will not get me. She will not get me this time. I will fight. I will bite and scratch. I will win. I must win._

A banshee shriek permeated through the heat and we both glanced upwards.

It was strange to know the real secret behind Thornfield's ghost. To live with it, and know it was no spectre, and to share that with my former betrothed. I hoped it would be a secret uniting us, rather than creating more barriers between our friendship.

Then, there were footsteps in the hallway and I pulled away, to compose myself. He did the same.

Mary appeared a few moments later and announced that Grace had asked, "for assistance with Mrs. Rochester." The announcement sent a queer chill through my skin, despite the fire, to know her by that name.

"She cannot care for it herself?" he demanded.

"No, sir," Mary replied. "She has gone into the room again, and will not come out."

My master sighed and ran a hand over his eyes.

"All right, I'll see to her," he told the servant. "Mary, will you see that J-Miss Eyre's things are brought in and put in the room across the corridor from mine?"

She acknowledged that she would, then left the room.

"Jane," he whispered to me before following her. "You will not leave?"

"No, sir." I smiled in an attempt to assuage his fears, but his look grew more desperate, his sudden grip on my arm slightly tighter.

"You will stay here?" he demanded.

His look alarmed me. I broke a vow to myself.

"Edward," I promised seriously, looking into his troubled countenance. "I will not leave this room."

I spent some time browsing the shelves of his study, looking at the tomes like old friends, waiting for my Edward to return.

No. He was not my Edward, not then. I might be his Jane, as he had called me moments earlier, but he was not my Edward.

I had done my duty, obeyed my calling. I had come back and had seen him again – knew him to be alive and at Thornfield and now I must pack my things and return to the small life I had made for myself at Moor House.

I had a family now, and means of supporting myself. I should not need him anymore.

But I wanted him still.

Soon I heard footsteps in the hallway. Not his. These were softer, lighter, feminine.

Her? I wondered, bracing myself for the entrance of the personage. But it was only Mary, informing me that the master had gone on an errand and would not be likely to return until tomorrow.

I wondered at his strange disappearance and asked, "Is everything all right? Is she–Bertha–is she all right? Is Grace all right?"

Mary looked momentarily startled that I would mention the name of my foil, my blockade to happiness, so readily. I suppose I should have been more hesitant in my inquiries. But I was glad to finally give her that name.

"Yes, miss, she–they are fine. Mr. Rochester has assured me they will not bother you tonight. It is another matter." She left the study without elaborating.

I was late, and I soon left for my own chamber to prepare for bed. Mary had set me up in the room across from Mr. Rochester, rather than my old chamber in a farther corridor, I supposed as protection from Bertha's midnight ravings.

But the change unsettled me and I longed for my old room and old ways. The new surroundings offered little distraction from the long dark hours and I spent most of the night thinking in questions.

Where was Mr. Rochester? What was he about? What other matter, so close to my homecoming, did he have to attend to?

Was it a homecoming? Was this my home?

Had I done the right thing in returning, without reason or occupation to employ me? And choosing to live in the same house as a mad woman, a woman who had tried to injure me at least once before, a woman who was wife to a man I still loved?

Just to be near him, dangerously, exquisitely, painfully near to what I wanted and desired most, but could not have?

Would I – could I – survive another stay at Thornfield Hall?


	6. The Tower

_I am almost free of Grace when I hear his footsteps in the hallway outside the room._

_But I continue to fight._

_He cannot come into this room. That is why I ran here: to this plain little room, where she used to be, everything just as plain and grey as when she left._

_He does not come after me when I come here. He gives up; he tells Grace to 'take care of it'. I am it._

_He will not even get past the threshold._

_But he does. He strides into the room, tall and dark and cold and grabs my arm, tightly. I stop fighting._

_It is I who cannot move now. She has come back; I realize it is no longer safe for me here._

_Bertha, he says, calling me by that name, a bad taste in his mouth. Bertha, you will stop now._

_I try to make myself tell him I will not stop, but he is too strong and Grace captures me and pins me to a chair._

_I cannot run; he blocks the door._

_And where would I run to? Except the tower. I have no sanctuary. I am spent. I am limp and tired._

_I cannot tell her to go; I am too weak. She will have to fight and bite and scratch for herself._

_I let Grace carry me up the stairs to the tower, with him following close behind, prepared for me to run. I do not move and he does not move, does not leave even after Grace stokes up the fire again. He stands in the doorway, black and determined, but I do not meet his eyes. I give up and I stare into the fire, long for its warmth and life, though nothing will penetrate this English cold and ice of his._

_I am exhausted and nearly asleep soon, when I hear him tell Grace he will be leaving for a few days and not to let anybody near the tower._


	7. Keeping House

I awoke early the next morning, confused by the new surroundings and bed, until I remembered where I was. It was strange to be back at so familiar a place as Thornfield, but in a situation I had scarcely ever imagined before.

What was my situation, exactly? I did not know myself that morning. I was not Miss Eyre, the governess. And I was not the mistress of Thornfield Hall, the wife of Edward Rochester. That title belonged to another.

The thought of another human being, however unstable, locked away, however comfortably, was a niggling worry in my mind.

Was she kept in a proper way? I had been too shocked and numbed by the initial discovery of Bertha Rochester to notice much of the accommodations in the North Tower during the short time I had been there. Now I wondered, could such a prison possibly be desired? And with all the servants gone, I thought the rest of the Hall must need some looking after. As I had no other occupation at the moment, I resolved to spend my first day back at Thornfield making the home as comfortable as possible.

Unable to sleep any longer, I dressed and had a small breakfast before setting about going to each of the rooms to list what needed to be repaired. Available help, I knew would be scarce, but Mary and George assured me they would assist me in my task once they knew of my intentions. With enough perseverance, I was sure we could complete the work in a tolerable amount of time.

In the afternoon, I came upon the corridor where my old room sat. I hesitated a moment before going in, remembering what Grace had said to me the evening before—that the mistress sometimes came here. What she did within the room, she had not said, but I wondered if she was within now. I knew she knew the way, as she had visited me the night before –

Steps down the hall made me check my hand on the doorknob. I strained to listen for clues of an intruder.

But it was too quiet now. I chided myself for being so silly and opened the door, entering the chamber before I could lose my nerve.

It was empty, silent and dim, except for a slice of afternoon sun, peeking through the heavy drapes, painting a stripe of golden light across the bed and floor. I went quietly through the room, as if worried of disturbing some resting occupant, softly drawing back the curtains, sending the dust of old lives dancing through the light like fairy beings.

It was damp and needed airing, but much of the room was still in the same neat fashion I had left it. The desk by the window with the chair drawn in, the bed smooth and plainly made, the clothes press in the corner. I went to it and tried to open the door, but it would not budge. Locked.

I remembered seeing a lock on the cabinet when I had first entered the room as a governess, but I had never been given a key. I assumed it was lost. With so few and such poor possessions as mine, I did not worry about keeping anything locked away. Nor could I remember leaving anything of particular value behind when I left Thornfield, except-- 

A sudden flush remembrance rolled over me like a sea and I placed my hand on the cool wood of the door to steady myself. The wedding dress would be in there, and the pearls, lying next to the drab Lowood frocks I had left behind, a peacock among so many doves. I had left everything with the door of the press wide open, advertising my absence. Edward must have ordered the doors locked after I left.

I might use some of my old Lowood frocks. I would get a servant to unlock it later.

I glanced around the room one last time, then left, shutting the door behind me. I would work on this room another afternoon.

I proceeded to the third story of the house, hoping to glance over some rooms in that corridor before dinner. I had climbed the stairs and rounded the corner when Grace appeared with a tray to go down to the kitchens.

"Good afternoon, miss," she greeted me curtly, blocking my entrance to the hall.

I returned her greeting with cold politeness.

"Where are you headed to in such a hurry, miss?" she continued, eyeing me suspiciously. "Not to the third-floor rooms, to be sure?"

"I was," I returned, meeting her gaze. "I have been going over all the rooms in the house, keeping an inventory of tasks to be completed. Without a proper housekeeper, some rooms have fallen into disarray. I wanted to check those rooms as well."

"Oh, you needn't worry about those rooms, miss. Nobody's ever up there, nor ever was, not even Mrs. Fairfax. Only leads to the North Tower."

I remembered quite plainly where the corridor led, but I was not frightened by the North Tower, nor its ghost any longer. Secrets, no matter how ominous, are no longer terrible when they are no longer secrets.

"Just as well Grace, I would like to check for myself." I went to go past her, but she did not move from my path.

"That wouldn't be wise, miss," she continued, obstinately and did not move.

I could see I would not budge her today and knew I must find another way into the corridor.

"Very well. I will speak to Mr. Rochester about this matter," I said coolly, walking back down the stairs.

My master was back that evening for a late dinner and afterwards he called me to his study. After a few moments of conversation on what I had been doing most of the day, I told him about my difficulty with Grace Poole. His response was not the help I had been looking for.

"No, Jane. Grace is right. You should not worry about that wing of the third floor."

"But sir, no one should live in such dust and damp, as I have seen in other rooms of the house."

"No one on that corridor lives in dust and damp," he said sullenly. "In fact, I wish you would not trouble yourself so with any of the house. It seems quite a task, even for you, my fairy, to restore Thornfield Hall to its former glory days."

"I do not mind it. In fact, I enjoy it, as Thornfield Hall is my home, the only I have ever known, and I wish to make it comfortable. You do not think me a proper housekeeper, sir?" I teased, trying to draw him out of his melancholy.

It worked. "Oh, I do not doubt your ability to keep a house, Jane," he said, eyes twinkling with mischief. "But I have a proposition for you that may be better suited to your other talents."

"Yes, sir?"

He looked at me, smiling in his typical mysterious manner, firelight throwing shadows across his broad forehead, the bridge of his nose, the hollow planes of his cheek. He looked now as I had imagined him, how I had painted him at Gateshead and at Moor House, only I had never captured his eyes correctly. There was a darkness and a light at constant battle there that no artist's brush nor scribe's pen could have accurately recorded.

The clock struck nine.

"No," he said, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass in the light before drinking it down. "It is late, and will have to wait till tomorrow. Will you be available for a few moments in the afternoon? If you are not too busy using fairy glamour to banish all the cobwebs from the Hall for eternity?"

"I might find some time to spare," I returned. "Though if I do banish all the cobwebs from the Hall for eternity, you can rest assured that magic will have nothing to do with it. My wand shall be only a properly stuffed duster."

"Jane," he said, smile fading into serious lines of worry. " Promise me you won't go into the third-floor corridor. It is too dangerous."

I was not afraid, but I could see that he was tense and frightened for my well-being. I took pity on his anxious mind.

"I will not. I promise, sir," I said gravely.

"Must you call me sir, Janet?" 

There was his look again, the one I could never capture, the one I could never hold.

"Yes sir, I must."


	8. The Girl

I ask Grace about the girl again. Yesterday, she came into the hall. I heard her and rattled the door, but then she fled. 

Now, Grace says she will come no more. She isn't allowed to visit this floor, she says.

Why? I ask.

Because of you, she says. This is your hall. This is your place, as mistress of Thornfield.

I am mistress of Thornfield. Not her. She is not allowed here. And soon she will leave again.

Where is her place? I ask Grace. She should go back there.

She does not have a place, Grace says. She is an orphan.

I should feel sad for her, an orphan with no home.

But even if she is an orphan, with no home, she should not come to take mine. She will not stay here long. I tell Grace this.

Her small, bloodshot eyes harden and become dangerous, like they do just before she is about to lock me away. I slink back to my corner, head down. 

You shouldn't try anything mistress, she says. You are to stay on this floor. If you do something, Master will be angry.

But I am mistress, I say. Why should I stay on this floor?

You are safe and content here, Grace says, going back to her sewing. 

You do not scare me and neither does he, I mutter, but Grace doesn't reply. She does not want to talk anymore. 

I leave my corner and go to the window. I watch my scarf float in the wind and imagine it wasn't a cold one.

Sometimes, the Master does scare me, and I know I must keep my plans a secret. I must banish the girl on my own.


	9. A Proposition

Mr. Rochester called me to his study in the next afternoon, as promised, but he was not alone. Seated rather stiffly in a chair across from his, was a thin and reedy man, dressed all in black, clutching his hat. He was pale—pale hair, pale freckled skin, pale eyes—so pale, he looked jaundiced and sickly. Both men stood as I entered the room.

"Miss Eyre," my master said, addressing me in the old formality in the midst of company. "This is Mr. Howard. He is the new curate at the church in town."

I curtsied and wondered if Mr. Howard had been told by the old curate of the circumstances of the relationship between me and Mr. Rochester. The past, the bliss, the severed cords, the snapped bonds.

But if the curate knew anything, he was discreet and made no indication when he returned my greeting.

"Mr. Howard wrote me several times in the weeks before his arrival and came to see me a few days ago, when he arrived in town. He wishes to start a village school for boys and girls at the church. He has been most insistent about it." Mr. Rochester grimaced with annoyance as he spoke of the curate's persistence.

The man nodded solemnly at the explanation, before adding in a quiet and unhurried tone, "The children of the poor must strive to better themselves. And it is the duty of those more fortunate to see that they have the means to."

I offered a small smile in agreement, but before I could speak on the matter, Mr. Rochester cut in.

"Until now. Mr. Howard has not been able to find a suitable teacher for the girls and has asked for my further assistance. I think you, Miss Eyre, will do splendidly."

"Me, sir?" I said, quite surprised.

"She has recently returned from visiting family, Mr. Howard," my master continued, as if uninterrupted. "She was governess to my ward, Adele Varens, before I sent her to school. Miss Eyre is now in need of a suitable position."

And what were my thoughts on this proposition, reader? If I had any, it wouldn't have mattered, for the men continued to speak on the particulars of the arrangement as if I were not vital to their scheme at all. I was astonished and a little offended that such a path had been readily laid out and planned for so quickly, without a word of consultation from me. I was about to usurp my station and demand the right to speak on the matter, when Mr. Howard spoke again.

"If you think she is capable, Mr. Rochester." He surveyed me up and down, lip curled in criticism.

I resolved to question my master about his plans later; now I stood tall, dignified and strong to prove Mr. Howard's worries about my qualifications wrong.

"I am a hard worker, sir, and have managed a classroom in a village school before, in Morton," I said, referring to my time spent with St. John, Diana and Mary.

"You will teach the ways of the church?" he asked, reminding me a little too much of Mr. Brocklehurst.

"Yes, of course," I agreed. "As long as those teachings do not include beatings. And enough food is provided for dinner."

The curate looked momentarily shocked at my insolent reply and turned to Mr. Rochester for help, but he was dismissed.

"Oh, yesof course, Miss Eyre," my master said, glancing at his pocket watch. "We will work out the details of the arrangement later. Just now I have other business to attend to with Mr. Howard."

I curtsied and made my way to the old schoolroom to watch at the window for the curate to leave. After a quarter of an hour, I saw his corpse-like form alight, stiff and awkward, into a carriage in the courtyard. Mr. Rochester waved him off, then walked towards the gardens.

I waited a prudent amount of time, then took to the gardens myself in the appearance of taking a stroll.

I found Mr. Rochester near the lightning-struck chestnut, fingering an unsmoked cigar.

If he sensed I was near, he did not immediately acknowledge my presence. I stood nearby but not close, pretending to look over the last of the fading summer blossoms. Winter would arrive soon, and the plants would curl unto themselves, shut off from the world.

"This tree amazes me, Janet. It was the first tree planted in the garden after Thornfield Hall was built, you know."

"Truly, sir?" I abandoned my pretense of looking at the flowers and went to him.

"Yes," he continued. "And though it has aged, this tree has always stood tall through the years and winds and storms. Even a lightning blast does not strike it down. It will not die."

"It is a strong and stubborn tree, sir," I replied. "It refuses to."

"But for how long, I wonder, Jane? See the branches, up there?" He pointed to the tree's top. "See where the leaves are few, yellowed and sickly, and the limbs are blacker than the rest—blighted? No, I do not think it will last."

"That is only one branch sir—a mild disease—it might be gotten over yet."

"Yes, yes, you may be right," he said, nodding in agreement. "You might hold nature lessons here for your eager pupils in the spring?"

"I wish you had spoken to me first before committing my time to Mr. Howard's service," I said. I felt irritated, but slightly relieved to have an occupation, with a proper place.

"But wedid speak about it, Jane," he said. "The first night, when you returned to me."

I had mentioned a place, reader, but I hadn't thought my scheme through. In truth, I had thought nothing through that night. I had submitted to my childhood passionate nature still lurking inside me, and I did not stop to think about the rational dangers and complications that might ensure.

"Are you angry with me, Jane? You needn't take the position if you are angry," Mr. Rochester continued, looming closer, looking tender. "I would have told you, but I had to act quickly. The curate was already looking elsewhere."

I could not stay mad at him, not when he looked like that, so concerned that he had caused me pain.

But I was still wary and curious about one thing in particular.

"Does Mr. Howard know about B– "

"He knows nothing of what has transpired at the Hall in the previous months," he cut off my reply sharply, not allowing me to speak her name. "Nothing." 

So he did not know of my and Mr. Rochester's... old association. I could not help but think this was best. I did not like to lie or deceive, reader, but I did not want to be the subject of gossip either. 

"There is an empty cottage near the church," Mr. Rochester said. "You could reside there. It is not far."

This idea shocked me more than the sudden appearance of Mr. Howard. I had assumed I would continue to live at Thornfield Hall, near my master. The sudden idea of severing such a bond brought a painful tightness to my throat.

"Might I remain at Thornfield, sir?" I asked quietly, unable to see his expression as he had turned away from me again. He did not reply.

"You said, it was not far and Mr. Howard– "

"No, Jane. He may come to know too easily already. You must leave by the end of the week."

So soon? My mind swam, and I felt unsteady and dizzy, but my eyes were dry, parched, almost painfully so. I had shed too many tears in this garden already.

"It could be dangerous," he insisted softly. Desperate for something to focus on, I watched Mr. Rochester, watched his gaze go to the third story ramparts, where a scarlet scarf fluttered in the breeze.

This would not do. I took a deep breath and calmed myself before speaking.

"Who will care for you?" I pleaded my cause one last time, though I knew I was losing.

He smirked. "I shall manage, Janet."

I could see there was no persuading him to let me stay at the hall. "I will come every day, whether you admit me into your presence or not," I said.

"I should wonder if you did not come, Jane. And I would never refuse you."

I gazed toward the hill where the church stood, a small gray box surrounded by gravestones. "The church is not so far."

"It is not Ireland," Mr. Rochester said, finally turning towards me, a mixture of mirth and melancholy in his eyes. I knew that expression. It was the same one I had replayed over and over again in my memory since he had last mentioned that island to me, standing in this garden.

Then, I did not know the reason for the sadness. Now I knew the secrets, but I still did not understand.

"No sir, it is not."


	10. A Conversation with the Curate

I went into town the following day to talk further with Mr. Howard about the school lessons and his expectations.

After a brief conversation, I found he was not like Mr. Brocklehurst at all, though perhaps a little too stern. He reminded me of St. John, and I told him so.

"Your cousin?"

"Yes. We taught together, while I was living with him and his sisters."

He hesitated. "Forgive me for my forwardness, Miss Eyre. But if you had a position as a teacher, among family, why did you leave?"

His curiosity seemed naïve, genuine, and without malice. Still, I did not want to cause trouble for Mr. Rochester and the other inhabitants Thornfield Hall.

"I feared I had left Thornfield in too much of a hurry—there was a family matter," I said, not mentioning which family it involved. "So I wished to return, to reassure myself that no harm had come to my previous pupil."

"The little French girl?"

"Yes. Adele," I said. "As for my family, St. John is to go to India as a missionary, and his two sisters will be married soon enough. There is no family for me at Moor House. Thornfield Hall is all I know."

Mr. Howard rested the tips of his fingers together, contemplating deeply on what I had told him, before speaking.

"I do not think you will stay long, Miss Eyre," he said.

Astonished at his pronouncement, I sought to prove my faithfulness to the task.

"Oh, but I give you my word, Mr. Howard. I mean to stay. I told you. I have no family now, save those who have been good to me at Thornfield Hall."

His expression did not change, nor did he speak, so I continued my plea.

"I will stay on as a teacher. I am and will be a good teacher to whatever pupils you would show me. If you don't believe me, ask Mr. Rochester."

"Forgive me, Miss Eyre, but I do not quite trust Mr. Rochester."

His quiet boldness shocked me, but I did not give up.

"Then write to Moor House," I said. "Someone there will provide satisfactory references. You would trust them, the family of a clergyman?"

His eyes widened, and I saw that I had shocked him.

"Very well," he said, cool manner returning. "I will write to this place and employ you on trial as a teacher—only because, as benefactor, Mr. Rochester's wishes must be obeyed," he added with disdain.

"Thank you, sir." I left the curate's cottage and began the walk back to Thornfield, mulling over the afternoon's conversation. Mr. Howard did not give many of his thoughts away, and I knew that pleasing him would be no easy task.


	11. Exploring Thornfield

It is silent, all silence. They have left, I think.

She is not here; I know that. I saw her leave early this morning, like she has every morning now for some time: through the garden paths, by the old tree, always scurrying, with that quick, queer step of hers, up over the hill, until I can no longer see her.

The first time she left I thought it was forever again. I thought I had banished her through my dark wishes in the night. I woke Grace in my excitement, but she wasn't happy like I was.

Go back and let me sleep, she said.

I explained the girl had gone again, but Grace only snorted, like a pig.

She'll be back, she said. She's only going for the day, to the church cottage to set up house.

So she will leave? I said, my excitement in my power growing. She will leave and live there.

Grace nodded. She'll be back for frequent visits though, I suspect, she said. She laughed again, as if she knew something I did not. I grew angry and went to sulk in bed.

Grace is asleep now.

Below stairs is quiet.

My door is unlocked. It swings open silently when I turn the knob.

Today, I am mistress of Thornfield. I must see to my house.

I put my warmest shawl over my nightdress—it is always so cold here—and go downstairs.

I tiptoe at first, until I see there really isn't anyone here. Soon I am walking, striding, sweeping down the halls. The halls of my house, where I am mistress. No one else.

I go into one of his rooms first, and no one is there—just books, his dead things. He likes dead, silent things and keeps them behind bits of glass, so he can look at them whenever he wants.

I remember once, long ago, before England and the tower and her, he caught a butterfly. Brilliant blue, like the sea. Not the sea here, with its dull freezing waves, but the sea at home, like sun-warmed sapphire. He kept the butterfly in a jar to show me.

Look Bertha, he said. Look at it.

I looked, but I did not want to see. I did not want to watch her flap her wings and throw herself against the glass, with soft little thumps.

Let her out, I begged. But he would not. Soon the butterfly flew slower and threw herself less against the sides of the jar until she did not fight anymore.

When she was dead, he pinned her to a piece of paper and put her in a case, behind more glass.

I find her now, among many others, dead, trapped things, pinned by their wings. For study, he says.

I bet she helps him catch butterflies now for study. She is fond of study.

I go to her room next. It is close to his, just down the hall, so he can hear her come and go. She does not have a Grace to tell him when she leaves—yet.

There is nothing in this room, not like his, full of things. It is like she does not even live here at all. I imagine that she does not, for now.

She does not have many things. She will not take things from him, Grace says.

He is not here to find me in this room where I shouldn't be. I take advantage of his absence and look around, look for her secrets.

The desk is locked, but the clothes press is not. It has always been locked against me before, as many things he values in the house have. She must have had it opened. I tug at one door.

I do not know why it was ever kept locked. There is nothing fine or grand inside. A few gray mouse dresses, like she always wears, and a white nightdress.

But I see something else white too, in the far corner. I open the other door to get a better look.

It is a white dress, plain, like the others, but of finer fabric, and better stitching. I have seen it somewhere before—seen her wear it—but I can't recall when. Where would she would wear such a fine dress? I run a hand over the skirt, soft, light and pretty. I shall try it on.

Something else falls at my feet when I reach for the dress.

Pearls, a single strand.

So she is not completely without ornament. I pick up the strand and run the slippery length through my fingers. I have finer necklaces, but the simple beauty of these jewels hypnotizes me. They run through my hands like water, calm and cool. 

Jane?

I hear his voice outside the door.

He must not see me. I ball up the pearls in my fist and look for an escape.

But it is too late. He comes into the room and sees me.

Bertha? 

He is angry—I can see his eyes flash with the fire of it. But I am not afraid; I am no stranger to fire.

Bertha, he says, coming towards me, grabbing my arm. You should not be here. You should never be here.

I struggle against him. I will go where I please. You cannot lock up the mistress of Thornfield. You have made me mistress of Thornfield.

But he does not listen.

Where is Grace? He twists my elbow, so I cannot move from him. You are going upstairs. He tugs at me again. What is in your hand? Show me.

I clench my fist tighter. I found them. They are mine.

He looks at the open door of the clothes press, then again sharply at me.

Show me, Bertha. He pushes me against the wall so I cannot move, using his free hand to peel back the fingers of mine, one by one, until I drop the pearls. They make a small insignificant sound hitting the floor, like fingernails on marble.

He reaches for them, lets go of me.

I run. I run back to the tower, back to Grace, away from him and his cooling anger.

Grace does not stir as I slip back into bed. I roll over and wait for sleep.


	12. A Conversation with Grace

It only took a few days to set up the schoolhouse and lodging near the church. During the interim, I saw very little of Mr. Rochester. Business in town preoccupied him, and I was often at the schoolhouse, preparing lessons. Sometimes, we would pass in the hall and exchange a few words. A few words were all I could manage, for with a mere word or a half-smile, I would find myself slipping into the glorious habit of being his companion again.

Until Grace would appear or a moan would come from the third-story.

Mr. Rochester's wife's presence permeated the hall like a ghostly wind, much like it always had. But now I recognized the feeling as not a supernatural haunting, but as the existence of another person. 

Sometimes, I welcomed these haunting interruptions, for they cleared the tension I often felt in Edward's company now. I was avoiding goodbyes. I was sure he was doing the same, rarely meeting my eyes and answering questions in such gruff monosyllabic tones as I had not experienced since our first meeting. I was both grateful for, and bitter against her phantom.

Soon my last night at Thornfield came. After returning from a garden stroll, I went to meet Mr. Rochester in the drawing room; I could not avoid saying goodbye any longer. I could not—I would not—slip into the night without a word this time.

But he was not in the drawing room.

I sat by the fire, sketching for a few moments, waiting for him.

As the clock struck eight, someone did come, but it was not Mr. Rochester, or even George or Mary. It was Grace.

She looked at me in her singular stone-faced way, as I acknowledged her. After a silent moment of regarding me, as one might look at something unworthy, she spoke.

"The master wished me to come and tell you he will be later than expected tonight. An incident has come up with Mrs. Rochester, and he has had to call the doctor. He will not be long."

"Oh, what sort of incident, Grace?" I inquired, worried. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes miss," she said, with little to assure me in her voice. "You needn't trouble yourself."

She curtsied and turned to leave the room. I had gone back to my drawing materials when she spoke again.

"Why did you come back to Thornfield, miss?" she asked, with a shrewd glare. I was taken aback by her question, but I answered.

"I felt I had to Grace." I met her stare with what I hoped was boldness. She continued to survey me with suspicion.

"You had to?"

"Yes," I said, hoping to relieve her of ideas that I had come to beg. "Believe me, I have no intention of being a burden to this household. I will teach, have my own cottage and earn my keep. I shall take nothing from the master of the house."

"And the mistress?"

I started at her question. I had momentarily forgotten Mrs. Rochester.

"I shall take nothing from her either, Grace," I said quietly. "Though it is not your place to ask."

"Forgive me, miss, I spoke out of turn." She lowered her eyes. "I will leave you now."

But she would not leave yet, not while I had questions, my own curiosity to satisfy.

"What exactly is wrong with Mrs. Rochester, Grace?"

"I am not a doctor, Miss. I'm sure I don't know," she said, speaking in an uncharacteristically humble tone.

"But you care for her. What, in your opinion, is wrong?"

The woman regarded me seriously and silently, and for a moment I thought she would take me into her confidence, tell me her secrets, tell me the truth.

But her answer only confused me further.

"She does not care for the master or for marriage much, miss, and often thinks of other places," Grace said. "There is nothing much wrong with her beyond that."

"Then why – "

"Because she is mistress of Thornfield. This is her place," Grace answered, cutting off my question. "I must go tend to her now." With a final curtsy, she left the room.

I continued to sit in the drawing room but did not sketch, instead pondering over my interview with the queer servant.

Bertha Rochester was mistress of Thornfield, because she was married to the master of Thornfield. Together, they had had a life years before me, a life I knew little of. Perhaps, there had been love in the beginning. I had never loved before Edward, but I knew that was not the case for him. 

Perhaps he still cared for Bertha, even if only a little, enough to keep her out of harm's way. In her state now, she would never survive on her own, without means of support from the Rochester fortune. I wondered if she might have injured herself tonight and hoped the doctor could help.

The clock struck nine, and Mr. Rochester still had not come down. I was tired and had quite a day to look forward to tomorrow. I was sorry I had not seen Edward on my last night and resolved, as I left the drawing room for my chamber, to call upon the master of Thornfield as soon as I had a free moment.


	13. My Pearls

The door opens and I hear his heavy step on the floor.

Grace has gone. It is just me and him. I curl up tighter in bed and feign sleep.

Bertha, he says, Bertha, look at me.

If I do not turn to him, he will leave soon. That is the way of things; he will give up and go to her.

Bertha, he says again, as he sits down in a chair near me. Bertha, I know you are not asleep.

But I am asleep. I will be asleep, once he leaves me.

He pulls back the coverlet on my bed. Bertha. Bertha, get up.

I do not move. I do not even shiver, though I am cold, with little fire in the grate and no blankets.

Bertha! 

He grasps my arm, tugs me out of bed, pulls me to my dressing table, forces me into the chair. Come Bertha. Try on the pearls. Don't you want to try on the pearls?

I look at my reflection in the mirror. White face, white hands and white gown in a dark room. I cannot see his reflection. He is dark and fades and blends into the shadows so well. But I know he is there. I hear his voice, his sweet, sibilant whisper.

Here, Bertha. Here are the pearls.

I see them, a string of gleaming snowdrops, sliding bead by bead out of his black hand.

I will help you try them on. Let me put them on you.

The way he says it, with that boyish grin, reminds me of us, younger and far away from here. For a moment, he steps out of his shadows and I have a vision of him, behind me in the mirror where he used to stand, watching me dress, in a sunnier, warmer long ago.

He comes behind me with the pearls, like he always would, with that secret smile he has just before he gives me a present.

He holds the jewels delicately between two fingers and lays them, cool and smooth against my flushed skin.

They look well on you Bertha, he says, resting his icy hands on my neck. The man in the mirror bends and lightly kisses my cheek, my neck, with cold lips.

Come now Bertha, he mumbles against my skin, lips sliding lower, down to my shoulder, a finger tracing my collarbone, a hand slipping under the neckline of my dress.

I smile at our intertwined reflections in the mirror, dark and light as I finger the gleaming jewels on my neck. I have won.

He lifts his head from my neck, smiles, showing gleaming white teeth, like the pearls.

Come, he says, hand slipping still lower down my dress, squeezing me painfully. Let's take those off now.

But these are my pearls. I do not want to take them off. I smile and shake my head.

Come Bertha, take them off, he says, moving his hands back up to my neck.

I stop them, tell him no. I want to keep them on.

His smile grows wider, his teeth suddenly sharper at my insistence.

Bertha, he hisses.

He pulls, hard at the snowy chain around my neck. I gasp for breath as I feel every hard round drop burrow into my neck. I claw at the chain and at his hands, but it will not break. 

He pulls harder and smiles so wide; I cannot breathe. My pearls.


	14. Soul Mates

I did not have to visit Thornfield to see my old master, as he came to see me the next morning before I left to take up permanent residence at the teacher's cottage.

"We promised no long goodbyes, Janet, but since I was unavoidably detained yesterday, might I accompany you on the walk to the church?"

I agreed, eager for his company, if only for a little while longer.

It was a tolerable walk, but a pleasant one in good weather. We strolled leisurely, close but never touching. I noticed Mr. Rochester decided on a different, longer route than we had taken on previous trips. One trip in particular still made me shiver. This time we both wished to prolong the journey, I suppose.

As we approached the graveyard, the rows of stones reminded me of Helen. The memory of my lost childhood friend, combined with the approaching loss of another just as dear, made me increasingly agitated. I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out. I should not be violent, passionate, and distressed; it would do me no good to prolong the inevitable with tears.

"What's wrong, Jane?" Mr. Rochester asked, noticing my silence.

"Nothing, sir," I said. "Only let's continue to the cottage. It is cold here."

I thought perhaps he would press the issue, insist on knowing my true feelings, as he had before. But he did not and continued to walk towards the house, speaking as he went.

"Yes, I do not favor this place much either, with all the ghosts of the Rochester clan looming down upon me. It offers too many reminders of the past, with only darkness ahead."

I followed his gaze to a dim corner of the cemetery where the great stone tomb of the Rochesters stood, alone and imposing.

"Is that where your father and mother rest?"

"Yes, and my brother. And one day, I suppose, myself," he answered with a grim smile.

"Surely not for a long time, though," I said, striving to lift him out of his depressed mood, though I felt sad too. "You are still quite a young man."

"A youngish man, Jane," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "And not entirely ignored by the struggles of life, as you will remember."

"You must not dwell on them so." I was growing increasingly distressed at his dispirited mood. "You must promise me you will not fall into a melancholia and take proper care of yourself, else I will not rest!"

"Jane, dearest, don't cry. Here, take my handkerchief, dry your eyes. There, be calm."

I strove to compose myself. As I wiped my eyes with the silken fabric, I noticed something glinting in the grass. I suppose it had fallen out of Mr. Rochester's pocket when he pulled out the handkerchief. I bent to retrieve the item.

It was a string of pearls. My wedding pearls.

"I thought I left these in the clothes press," I said, fingering the jewels, concentrating on their sheen and keeping my voice calm and steady. "Why do you have them now?"

"I wanted you to have them. They are yours," he said, not looking at me. "You did not take them with you the last time."

They weren't mine to take then. They still weren't mine; they belonged to a girl bride, an innocent who no longer existed.

"I would have no use for such ornaments, not as a teacher." I pushed them back into his fist, but it was closed against me.

"Nor should I, my fairy. What do you propose I do with them? Drape them about my waistcoat? Use them in place of a watch-chain?"

"I cannot accept such a fine gift, Mr. Rochester."

"Please take them as a farewell gift, Jane."

He looked anxious, tender, his visage dark and troubled. I did not wish to say goodbye.

"This is not a farewell, sir. I shall be only a short walk from Thornfield and shall visit often." I took his hand and placed the pearls gently in his palm. "There should not be a parting gift, if we never truly part."

Tears stood in my master's eyes at my pronouncement. "Dear Janet!" he said, swiftly kissing our joined hands. "You are right. We should never truly part, you and I. Time and distance could not snap such a bond before, and it should not now. I shall keep these pearls. They shall be a kind of cord between you and I, a reminder of such an unbreakable tie."

He was greatly agitated and continued to hold both of my hands tightly. I did not wish to distress him more and sought to lighten the conversation.

"When I am not at Thornfield," I chided. "You will not frighten the servants with your changeable moods?"

"Moods?" he barked, tossing away my hands. "I am and always have been a gentleman of a calm and serious demeanor."

"Ah, so you have only been play acting at your distress and anger? I shall have to tell Mary not to coddle you, if it is merely a ruse. I fear she is quite worried and now without good reason. "

"Is she worried?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"She fears you will fall into a melancholia again, that you are burdened by your w—your troubles."

"Well, I shall try to bear my troubles more gallantly," he said, his grim expression returning.

We were at the cottage door. If I wanted to sate my curiosity, I had better ask him now.

I began, "Grace has told me—"

"What has Grace told you?" he cut me off, his eyes suddenly alert and wild.

I continued calmly, hoping to soothe his expression. "She has told me there might not be much wrong with Bertha, only that she does not care for her position at the hall."

"Not much wrong!" he scoffed. "Forgive me, Jane, for not taking the word of a servant woman with a predilection for drink! Have you forgotten how my wife tried to burn me in my bed? How she gravely injured Mason, her own brother? How she nearly attacked you, my darling, flying at you in a rage on the day of our wedding?"

I had remembered these things, but I felt there were still answers to pursue.

"Perhaps she would not resort to such violence if she were not locked away so often," I mumbled.

"She has seen several physicians, Jane, all of whom say that keeping her in tight rein is the only answer, though I wish it were not."

"I only worry for your health, sir. I only wish to ease your distress, to lift away your worry, to provide, if I may, some answer to your troubles," I said to soothe him. I knew we must say goodbye soon. It was late in the morning and there was much work to do at the schoolhouse and at Thornfield.

"I know Jane, and I thank you for it. I do not deserve such a dear and devoted soul mate," he said, clasping my hand one last time.

This time it was my eyes that burned with tears.

"Nor do I, sir. Nor do I."


	15. My Jewels

It is evening. The sun sputters like my dying candle in the cold English wind, until the black winter sky takes over and engulfs the last of the light. 

There are no stars. Only the moon shines, and it is too pale and sickly. Its light offers no warmth. I imagine it to be a bleak and hungry landscape there, on the moon. When I stand near the window on these winter nights, I can almost imagine I am there, for the wind is just as icy and the landscape just as foreign.

The fire is dying. I wish Grace would attend to it, but she has gone again, with the door secured and locked firmly behind her.

They have not let me out of this room since my last expedition into the hall. He has seen to that. But I still carry souvenirs of the trip with me always.

I sit in front of my dressing room mirror and unbutton the neck of my gown, as I have each night for a week to look at myself in the moonlight.

There, under the high starched neck of my nightdress are eight perfectly round hollows, blotched purple and blue. I touch each one with a fingertip; they are tender, bruised, and I wince at the contact.

I have my string of pearls.

Of course, Grace does not believe me when I tell her.

Nonsense, she says, not looking up from her mending. It's merely marks from your own hands, you selfish thing. Master told me. He tried to take the pearls off you, but you grabbed hold of the chain and wouldn't let go. See how your knuckles fit into each of the marks? He had to call the doctor, he was afraid you injured yourself so badly.

Devious girl, she says, You did an idiot thing, going after those pearls.

Perhaps, I say to my reflection, after Grace has gone to get dinner. The string of pearls was unbreakable. I had known from experience, before I had even put them on, that such chains always were.


	16. Shelter from the Storm

I began lessons the following day. My pupils—mostly country girls, the daughters of local farmers—were a bright set, eager to learn, though not always the quietest. It took me some time to settle the classroom into proper order.

Mr. Howard came by the school each afternoon to monitor my progress. I felt his scrutinizing eye keenly during each brief visit. It appeared he had not heard from Moor House yet and still doubted my abilities as a teacher. I had heard from the girls with siblings in Mr. Howard's care that he was a faithful disciple of "spare the rod, spoil the child." The whipping switch held no such place of prestige in my classroom, nor would it ever, no matter how long a trial the curate might require.

Though Mr. Howard was my new employer, I felt determined not to let my old master and friend slip into his former state of despair and loneliness. I visited Thornfield Hall often during free afternoons and evenings to talk with Mr. Rochester.

The gloom I had encountered when I first saw the hall again had not returned in my absence. Strangely, Bertha also did not make herself known on these visits; indeed, if I had not seen Grace walking to and from the third floor, I would have thought the ghost of Thornfield Hall had left to haunt another. Perhaps my master had instructed the servant to show the poor woman more kindness, as I had implied that she was unhappy, and that had settled her temper greatly.

Now the great house was nothing but bright and busy, if not still a little empty without Adele, Mrs. Fairfax and many of the servants. But after the quiet of my small cottage, I needed no other company when in Mr. Rochester's presence, for we could gladly and easily fill the hours with conversation.

I kept him apprised of my students' humble progress and he delighted in my tales of their escapades, struggles and triumphs in learning to cipher and practicing penmanship. But he said he wondered whether I was satisfied to teach only basic skills.

"What shall you do with your other talents, Janet? With no one in need of French lessons or instruction in watercolors?" he teased.

"Save them until they are needed," I returned.

"Perhaps you could teach me the finer art of sketching a garden scene or the subtleties of light and shadow."

"You tease, sir, and you would have no need for such instruction," I said. "You have an observant, scientific eye and know such things already."

"Sly minx! You direct the conversation where is suits you best, with such flattery and appeals to my vanity! Though 'tis true that I know the science behind such tricks of light and flower blooms. And I can appreciate the glint of the sun on the deep darkness of turbulent waters or the green glass of a dragonfly's wing. But I cannot capture it. I cannot hold it as you do."

"I do not strive to hold onto it, sir, but to share it, if only for a little while, with others possessing appreciative eyes. Then the scene changes and offers something new to share with kindred spirits such as yourself."

"And for that, I suppose I will have to be grateful, Jane," he said. "I am grateful for it. My boorish hands need never attempt to hold an artist's brush while I have your vision, your view of the world to captivate me."

The clock struck seven; we had been sitting too long without keeping track of the hour and I feared I should start walking back to the cottage before it grew later.

But in the delight of our conversation, we had also failed to notice the sky darkening and a storm approaching. It began to rain—no doubt a chilly, icy rain that needles the skin and turns the roads to rivers of mud, as is usually found on the moors. I worried it would be impossible for me to leave that night.

"Stay, Jane," Mr. Rochester implored when he saw my distress at the weather. "You'll risk your death in this tempest. I'll have Mary prepare a room."

I hesitated to spend a night in Thornfield Hall, a place of dangerous familiarity, too much like times of the past begging to be vigorously reclaimed for the present.

And I did not trust myself to be able to ignore such desires, especially in the company of Mr. Rochester. With each visit, I felt myself giving more and more over to him, opening myself to him, and in my mind, becoming fully his—and all the while still wishing I could really be closer to him. His presence had become a heady drug, enticing me into a dreamlike stupor until I did not recognize myself. It always took a majority of the walk home, through the chill and cold of the approaching winter, to render me sober again.

The rain lashed harder at the windows and I thought I heard a moan from upstairs, though it could have been the wind. Mr. Rochester glanced upward, a scowl passing briefly over his shadowy features.

And there was Bertha to think of. Though she had not encroached upon my visits to Thornfield thus far, if I were to stay, would she find me in the night? Would she tolerate my presence?

My master must have noticed my unease, because he added, "You shan't be disturbed, by anyone. You can leave at first morning's light if you wish, when the weather clears."

It was only the night, a night to be spent very much alone, as always, just like in the cottage, I told myself. He was right; risking my health in this rain would be the height of foolishness. I relented and told him I would stay.

Mary was called and the room near Mr. Rochester's that I had spent previous nights in after my return was prepared.

"Goodnight Jane. You shan't be disturbed," he assured me again as we prepared to retire for the night.

"Goodnight, sir," I said, smiling in return.

I went to my room. He did not follow to his own chamber, instead walking in the direction of the stairs which led to the third story.

Reminded once again of the secrets of the hall, I locked my door. I had had my fill of secrets.


	17. The Key

I am locked in the tower again this afternoon. I'd hoped when she left again, I would be locked in no longer. 

But it is worse than before. Grace does not have keys to steal anymore; nor do the other servants, which now appear when Grace leaves for food or to relieve herself. I am never left without a watchman.

And when she visits, which is often, he comes and locks the tower door with a new key. He carries it in his pocket, tied in a corner of his handkerchief with her pearls. When he is not looking, I watch him rubbing the beads and the key between his greedy fingers, like talismans to ward off evil.

And for now, they keep his evils at bay, because he does not approach me again, does not touch me, sometimes does not even enter the room. I only know he has come by the soft click of the turning key, louder than the iron shudder of any prison bars. I wait expectantly for the hour to come when the key will turn again, and I can hope for the possibility of freedom.

But tonight, as a frigid wind moans outside and I feel icy rain slip through the cracks in the window casement, the hour of hope is longer in coming. Even Grace notices it. She has not had dinner yet and has been denied strong drink these past days. She grumbles and fidgets at the loss. I am not hungry. I haven't had interest in food for days and leave the trays Grace brings me mostly untouched. She picks at one of these plates now, the bread stale, the apple soft, its flesh browning. When I try to talk to her, she snaps at me, so I sit silent in front of the mirror, brushing my hair.

It is dark and I have managed a hundred brush strokes several times over when I hear the click of the key in the lock.

He comes in tonight with heavy swift steps, bringing a dark, chill wind. He whispers to Grace and she leaves, eager for food and a warm bed.

He sits in her chair and watches me, his eyes, black pinpoints of hate. I stare back unflinching.

We sit like this for sometime, husband and wife. It is the longest we have ever spent in a room together since we were married, but we do not speak. After an hour – I suppose it was an hour, for I have no marker of time in my cell – I begin to wonder why he is here and when he will leave.

I am staying tonight, Bertha, he says, divining my thoughts. I will be watching over you. You should go to sleep.

He is tense and surprised when I do not argue with him. Instead, I go to my bed and lie down. But I do not sleep. I plan.

It is nearly dawn when I finally hear it – the wheezing snore that says he has fallen asleep. I roll over slowly to check if I am right.

Weak man. His body is slouched in an uncomfortable chair by the dying fire, head lolling, eyes closed, mouth open above a wrinkled and untied cravat. Even Grace at her drunkest was more capable than he in keeping awake and alert throughout the night. I nearly cackle with delight, but stuff my fist into my mouth to keep silent. I must make my way out first; then I can laugh as freely and as often as I like.

I slowly rise from bed, careful not to let the springs squeak, and tiptoe across the cold floorboards. I circle my prey, once, twice, three times, looking for what I desire. There it is – his handkerchief, one white silken corner peeking out of the pocket of his trousers. If I crouch behind the chair and stick my fingers through the space between the wooden arms and the seat, I can easily grab it.

Once in position, I tug cautiously at first, afraid of disturbing him, but the kerchief does not budge. He does not move either, his breathing remaining even in deep sleep. I decide if I give the handkerchief corner one swift pull, it will come out with the key so fast he won't wake up.

I tug hard and the handkerchief gathers in my hand. But I am too eager. The key flies through the air. I grasp with shaking fingers that cannot catch it. I wait for him to wake at the sound of it hitting the ground.

But there is no sound. I twist in my uncomfortable crouched position behind him and look for the fallen key. There it is, in the dying coals of the fire, glowing a faint red.

There is no time to grab a fire poker and digging in the ashes might wake him. I reach in the grate and grab it quickly, biting back a scream as the hot metal sears my fingers.

My eyes water and stream with tears as I shuffle on light feet to the door. Only a few steps more, and the key is in the lock. I turn it and the key scorches its image in my palm, but I don't care about burns now –

A hand grasps mine tightly, another slams shut the half-open door.

Bertha!

He grasps both of my hands and does not let go.

Bertha! No! he shouts in my face. His breath is hot and rank; I am peppered with spittle in his rage. You are to stay here!

The burn on my hand smarts and stings at the friction of his grasp. I twist against it. He does not let go, but pushes me farther back into the room. I push back at him and soon we are both shoving, wrestling, back and forth, both trying to lead in a strange savage dance.

Suddenly, with one great heave, he pushes me onto the bed. Before I can recover, he is on top of me, holding my wrists above my head and pressing down on me with all his weight. I cannot move, cannot breathe.

Bertha! he says through clenched teeth, his red face contorted with rage. Don't make me do this!

For a moment, I imagine I see something else in his black eyes, now so close. Guilt? Frustration? Shame?

The door opens again. There is a gasp, the clatter of china broken on the floor, the swish of skirts and quick light steps running away.


	18. Locked Doors

I slept fitfully that night. Over the howling of the wind across the moors, I strained to listen for signs of movement outside my door. At every rattle of the window, every creak of the floorboards, every moan of the wind, I started in my bed. I wondered at the origin of the noises that awoke me—whether they came from the tempest outside, or from the more sinister residents of the hall.

But my efforts at discernment were in vain, for the day dawned bright and clear, the storm clouds burned away in the light of a white and harsh autumn sun.

Unable to sleep longer, I rose, dressed and was out in the garden before breakfast. As I strolled the paths in the early morning light, I felt amazed that such a terrible night could leave only dewy lawns and a few broken branches. Even the old chestnut survived unscathed.

I was out longer than I expected to be and when I returned to the house, the sun had risen high in the sky. As I came in through the kitchen, Mary met me, very distraught and out of breath.

I led the sobbing woman to a chair. "Why Mary, whatever is wrong?"

After a few deep breaths, she said, "Oh nothing, now Miss. The master is looking for you. You'd better go to him, 'fore he works himself into one of his frightful states." She patted my hand and gave me a teary smile, as if I was the one who needed consoling.

He thinks I've left again, I realized. I, shunned and forgotten most of my youth, should have remembered that recollections of abandonment are not soon forgotten.

"I will go to him now, Mary. Where is he?"

The woman paled and began shaking again at my question. I put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

"He—he was in the—the North Tower, last, miss," she managed, her voice a quivering whisper.

I left the servant woman by the kitchen fire with a cup of tea. She could barely mention my master and the North Tower. What had happened there? I knew of Thornfield's ghost now, but I did not know what she did alone in her tower.

What had she done?

What had he done, when he'd thought I'd gone?

Surely he would not go after Grace and her charge in my supposed absence?

What had happened before, when I left in the night?

I walked faster through the corridor to the tower.

I came upon him locking the door to the entryway to Bertha's room. Mary had been right; he was pale, his black hair in tangles and his hands shook as he turned the key in the lock.

Though I was near, he did not notice my appearance and continued muttering to himself in incomprehensible syllables. I touched him on the shoulder.

He spun at the contact, the blaze in his eyes turning to a gentler light when he saw me.

"Jane! You're here!"

"I am, sir. I have been for a stroll in the garden this morning—while you, I hear, have been terrorizing servants!" I scolded him teasingly, attempting to ease the strain of the situation. "Mary was shaking and near tears, sir."

He hung his head in apology. "I am sorry, Jane. Is she all right?"

"I set her down near the fire with a cup of tea and, I daresay, she is better now. All this fuss over a morning walk. Did you think I would leave without saying goodbye?"

"I did not mean to frighten anyone. I only thought the worst I'm afraid. Mary must have thought things had gone bad again," he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

Again? I wondered. Things had been worse than they were the morning I had returned to Thornfield? What sort of rage had I missed in my absence?

"I will go see Mary now and apologize," Mr. Rochester said.

"Is Bertha well?" was the one question I managed before he left the corridor.

The inquiry stopped him and he turned to me, his face composed into a rehearsed, blank expression I had rarely seen on him before. It was such a visage as I might have seen on the abusive phantoms of my past—Mr. Brocklehurst, John Reed—but never on my beloved master. A chill ran up my back and settled, taut and waiting, at the nape of my neck.

"She is tolerably well," he answered, then continued downstairs.

I stood a moment in the hall, staring at the door between myself and her. I placed my hand on the knob and turned it, though I knew it would not open. This was one door locked to me forever.


	19. An Early Winter

I prepared breakfast for myself and Mr. Rochester, Mary being indisposed. With the events of the morning, I set out for the school later than I had intended, and I was made later still by the muddy and ruined paths ravaged by the storm.

Mr. Howard had arrived before me and I found my pupils copying out Bible verses on their slates under his stern and watchful eye.

I made to go to the front of the room and resume lessons, but with a cool, stiff nod of his head, he beckoned me outside.

"Where have you been this morning, Miss Eyre? Your pupils arrived to find themselves without a teacher."

"Forgive me, sir, but I had come from Thornfield Hall this morning."

"What were you doing at Thornfield Hall at such an early hour, Miss Eyre? Surely reports of school progress to Mr. Rochester can wait until after the afternoon bell has rung."

Despite his tone, I held my head high. I had nothing to be ashamed of. "I had been there last night, sir, and was forced to stay the night due to the storm."

He raised a pale eyebrow at my explanation.

"You spend many evenings at Thornfield, do you not, Miss Eyre?"

"I have spent a few evenings there, yes. You have said yourself, that as benefactor, Mr. Rochester must have knowledge of the school."

"Oh, quite true, yes," he said. "Only one might wonder why you feel he requires such visits so often."

My cheeks flamed. I did not care for such intimations from Mr. Howard. 

"Mr. Rochester is a former employer of mine and has been a friend, when I had none. I go to Thornfield to consult his opinion on many matters, for I respect it."

He did not reply, though I saw my answer had not satisfied him. He bid me good day and left me to my charges.

Mr. Howard remained distrusting, watching me closely for the rest of the week. He arrived early at the school house before lessons began and appeared at my doorway in the afternoons. Under such close watch, I dared not visit Thornfield and arouse more of the curate's suspicions, however strongly I pined for my master's company. By the end of the week, loneliness prompted me to confront Mr. Howard about his scrutiny.

But at the end of that day's lesson, I was surprised to discover that he was not at my doorway.

I waited for a bit, straightening up the classroom and putting away my pupil's meager drawings. I thought he might have been detained by a parishioner and would appear later. But as the sun sank lower and the air grew colder, I saw that he was not coming and I would have to save my courage for another afternoon. 

I decided to visit Thornfield. It was late, but after many days of not visiting, would not my master be as glad to see me as I was eager to see him?

I hastened towards the great house, eager to make it before nightfall. The air was cold, windy and smelled portentously of ice and snow. I burrowed my hands deeper into my muff and hurried against the wind and approaching darkness.

The moon and the sun were at equal positions in the sky, passing each other as one rose and another set. I watched as white pearly moonlight fought desperately against the fire of the sun – for though the day was dying, its light was just as fierce and as brilliant as the last gasps of a dying flame.

This brilliant battle of light, combined with the encroaching purple of the starless winter night, seemed to warn of changes to come and thrill went up my spine at the sight of such a terrible beauty.

I arrived at the great hall just as darkness had swallowed it all and the cold had increased its bitterness.

I handed my cloak and muff to Mary in the kitchen rushing to warm my hands by the fire, before inquiring about the master.

"He is well. He is in the drawing room, with company, miss," Mary said quietly, eyes downcast. She seemed much changed since I had last saw her, now cloaked in what appeared to be a hopeless melancholy.

"Oh, I did not know he was engaged this evening. Is it business matters, Mary? Is everything all right? " I asked, concerned with her changed countenance. "Should I not have come?" I was a bit disappointed to have traveled to Thornfield seeking a warm fire and stimulating conversation , only to be turned back into the icy and lonely landscape. But if the master was entertaining company, that must be a sign of his improved spirits. I must take joy from that.

"Oh, no miss. The master said if you were to visit tonight, you were to come to the drawing room, straight away as always." Before I could question the woman further, she curtsied and left the room.

What peculiar behavior is this? I thought as I made my way upstairs. The house was silent, cloaked in its usual solemness and gloom, and I found nothing to disturb me in its halls.

Mary had said Mr. Rochester was well. Had something happened to one of the servants? To Grace? Had she – Bertha – had she done something? My step quickened, as my thoughts ran through the perilous schemes such a being could inflict.

I reached the drawing room flushed and out of breath. I made attempts straighten my dress and hair before knocking.

"Come in," Mr. Rochester's deep baritone came from the other side of the door—calm, serious, slightly gruff, as always. You've worked yourself into a flurry over nothing, Jane Eyre, I chided myself, before opening the door and entering the room.

There were three people in the room. My master sat in his usual seat at the fireside, his face turned towards me. Across from him, their backs to me, I saw the forms of two peoples' heads, but both were unrecognizable in the half-shadows of the room.

"J- Miss Eyre," my master greeted me, rising from his chair with an unusually grim, tight smile. "It is good you have come tonight."

At the sound of my approach the other two beings in the room rose and turned towards me, the dim light of the fire briefly revealing their personages.

"Good evening, Miss Eyre," said Mr. Howard, bowing stiffly.

But I could not return his greeting, for the appearance of the second man made my breath and blood drain from my body, leaving me as cold and immovable as Lot's wife, turned suddenly to a salt pillar.

"Good evening, Jane," said my cousin, St. John Rivers.


	20. St. John's Ultimatum

"Please, Miss Eyre, sit," I heard Mr. Rochester say, as though from a great distance. The sudden warmth of his voice shook me from my stupor; I had been standing in shocked silence for many moments, not returning the greeting of either man. I sat in a low chair next to Mr. Rochester, across from my cousin.

"How are you this evening?" my master continued to me, in polite efforts to ease the cold tension in the room. "I trust your walk here was not unpleasant?"

"It was the same walk as always," I replied, distantly, my eyes fixed upon St. John as though he were a vision or a trick of the moonlight that would disappear if I turned my head or blinked. But no—he was still there, meeting my scrutinizing eye with his own icy look.

"It was perhaps a little colder than usual. Winter is approaching fast, sir," I added, turning and seeking the warmth of Mr. Rochester's gaze to fight off the chill that St. John's was rapidly creating up my spine.

"I trust you did not catch cold, Jane?" Mr. Rochester asked, leaning closer towards me with concern in his glance and voice. I received no such care from either clergyman seated opposite me, only blank stares and silence. "Come, sit closer to the fire," my master continued. "I'll have Mary bring you some tea."

"No, thank you, sir, I am fine," I replied, smiling to ease his worry, and my own. I reminded myself that St. John Rivers held no more power over me. I was a woman of independent means; I cared for myself now. I sought to regain my composure.

"How do you do, Mr. Howard?"

He only nodded in reply and sipped his tea.

"How are you, St. John?" I inquired warmly after my cousin.

"I am well, Jane." His reply was stiff, unyielding, but I would not give up yet.

"I am sorry for such a poor welcome," I said. "Indeed, you had me quite shocked. I thought you would have gone to India by now, surely. Will you accept an embrace from your cousin?"

I went to his chair, my arms held out to receive him. But he did not rise, only continued to stare at me, undisguised shame and embarrassment in his eyes.

My smile faltered. "A handshake, then? Take my hand, St. John."

He grasped my palm loosely, so I barely felt his cool fingers on my feverish and clammy skin. I saw he did not wish to prolong the greeting and quickly returned to my chair.

"I had been preparing for the journey," St. John said, addressing Mr. Howard rather than myself. "When I received a letter from Mr. Howard that I felt must be answered."

The letter for references from Moor House, that I had requested. I grew cold and immovable again. My request for the letter had been made in desperation to remain here, near to Edward. Would it now be the cause of our separation? What misery had been brought by my own hand?!

Mr. Rochester did not relish this unexpected visit any more than I did.

"You felt obliged to answer it in person?" came his sarcastic reply.

St. John looked at him sharply and replied in a dangerously even tone, "Yes. I did."

We all sat in silence for a long moment, staring into the fire, each of us, no doubt, lost in these new thoughts that required much contemplation.

I know my own thoughts were nothing but a series of questions about the knowledge possessed by Mr. Rochester's unexpected guests.

What had St. John told Mr. Howard? What would become of Mr. Rochester? Or myself? How long until I was separated from the man I loved? Together, we'd created a precious but precarious world at Thornfield; a world of two, stretched to include a ghostly third. How long before it was in shambles? St. John would not leave Thornfield until he had claimed me to go with him.

"How long will you be staying, St. John?" I asked, struggling to keep a tremble out of my voice.

His answer was unperturbed and victorious.

"Not long, I hope."

"How long, St. John?" I asked again, not caring if Mr. Howard saw my distress, or wondered at my wringing hands; let him put it down to worries over losing a cousin, rather than losing my equal in love and life.

"A few days, Jane," he answered sternly. "A few days at most."

"It may be more than a few days, Mr. Rivers," I heard my master say from across the room. In my distress, I had failed to notice that he had gone to one of the great windows that lined the wall. He stared into the storm, reflections of lightning and shadows of blowing snow falling across his broad square forehead, hollow cheeks and grim mouth.

"You were thinking of staying in the village? The Rochester Arms?" he said, biting down on the words.

"Yes, you are correct. I have no wish to impose upon you or the other inmates of Thornfield Hall," my cousin replied, looking at me as he uttered the last phrase.

"Well, Mr. Rivers, impose." My master spat out the words like a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm afraid you must. At least for tonight. 'Tis snowing much too hard for you to make the journey."

"I am of hardy character, sir, and I'm sure Mr. Howard would say the same of himself," St. John said in a voice as chill as the wind outside. Mr. Howard nodded his agreement.

"I have no doubts of your character, Mr. Rivers, but I should hardly be a cordial host if I were to send my guests out into the middle of a blizzard, where they might be lost and die," my master replied with barely concealed malice.

I tried a calmer tactic to make my cousin see sense.

"Please, St. John, do stay the night. It has been weeks since our last meeting and it would be a grand opportunity to talk," I pleaded with him. Let him hope I would leave Thornfield on my own, for now. 

My cousin seemed to consider my entreaty, but looked to Mr. Howard for a consultation. I was hurt, but not surprised that St. John considered the opinion of a man he had met hours ago over that of a family member. I was tainted in his eyes.

"Very well, I will stay," he assented.

"We will both stay," Mr. Howard added superfluously.

My master nodded grimly and pulled the bell to call a servant.

Presently, Mary appeared, looking flustered. She did not wait for Mr. Rochester to say what he wanted, but went over to him, whispering frantically in his ear.

I watched as my master's face changed in rapid, flickering shadows of expression—shock, anger, tired frustration, then finally blankness, designed to mask and hide. I knew what such whisperings were about, but St. John and Howard looked nonplussed at the exchange.

"Is anything wrong, Mr. Rochester?" Howard inquired. "Is everyone well?"

His curiosity was so naive and genuine, I sensed that the curate could not know about Bertha. My mind quieted a little.

Mr. Rochester, who had been speaking in sharp imperceptible whispers to Mary, turned to the curate with a false air of nonchalance and said, "Only a matter with the servants. If you will follow Mary, Mr. Howard, she will show you to your room. Ja- Miss Eyre, if you would be so kind as to show your cousin to the room on the second floor corridor? You know the house well enough and you can show him the library on your way. Are you fond of reading, Mr. Rivers?"

"Only religious texts."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm afraid there are few of those in the Thornfield library. But if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." He left, with Mary and Mr. Howard following close behind.

The unexpected meeting had left me tired and dizzy. "Come, St. John," I said, anxious to end the ordeal. "I will show you to your room."

We made our way silently at first, the candle flame sputtering in the drafty corridor. When we did speak, it was in whispers, as if we were afraid of disturbing the empty rooms.

"You know this hall well, Jane?' St. John said haughtily.

I did not care for what he was implying and told him so. "I was a governess here for nearly a year, St. John and it had changed little since."

"Yes, old houses such as these do not fluctuate or improve, nor do their masters change."

"Mr. Rochester is a fine man, St. John, my friend and a good master," I said, parroting the absent Mrs. Fairfax.

"A fine man who attempts to marry even as he keeps another wife in secret. Have you forgotten his sins against you? His efforts to lead you down the dark path?"

"No. But I have forgiven him. Isn't that what good friends and good Christians are supposed to do? Forgive and guide the lost down the path to goodness and right?"

"I fear it is not Mr. Rochester who is being guided, but you, Jane," he said, in a callous tone that spoke to his sure attitude of righteousness in the matter. "You must realize that he is incapable of reform."

"You do not know him. You do not know that!"

"Does he still keep a wife, locked away? And Howard tells me you visit often, that you associate with such a libertine, despite his devilish behavior."

"Have you told Mr. Howard or other authorities of the past and of Mr. Rochester's marriage? Of Bertha?" I felt myself growing more impassioned and frantic by the moment, wild-eyed, as I had often seen my master look.

St. John merely looked disgusted at my questions.

"No. I have not."

I breathed a sigh of relief. But St. John continued.

"And I will not bring attentions to such a scandal—if, when the storm passes, you agree to return to Moor House and then, come to India, as my wife."


	21. An Impasse

"St. John, you are not serious!"

But my cousin was always serious, and especially so now.

"I cannot go to India with you," I insisted. "I cannot marry you."

"Why not, Jane? Have you anything to keep you here besides your teaching work. You might do that in India, for a much more deserving number of children."

"I have friends. I have my life here!" I said, struggling to keep my voice at a discreet whisper.

"You would make new friends—better ones. But it is too late to be talking of such an important topic which is obviously distressful to you. I will leave you to think over the matter during the night. I am sure you will see the benefits of such a journey in the morning." He left for his room.

I did not sleep that night, the second time within a fortnight I had not slept while at Thornfield Hall. But this time, the tempest within, rather than the storm outside kept me awake.

My cruel cousin had left me with no choice. I must leave with him for India as soon as possible or risk the reputation and life of my beloved master. 

I loved my master, and I loved Thornfield. I would not see my home torn asunder by disgrace, even if leaving it would tear me apart.

To apply to Mr. Rochester for help would be fatal to all the occupants of Thornfield Hall; he would forsake them for me, and I had no wish to rob others of their home.

No.

I must break off all associations with Thornfield, permanently. 

I must shun my old love in such a way that he would come to despise me and never think of me again. I must make him believe that I had never loved him. I must make him hate me.

I awoke the next day with a heavy heart and tired eyes. I knew I would not eat much at breakfast; my stomach felt as though I had swallowed a mound of the ice and snow that had piled on my windowsill. But I went downstairs anyway to sit at the meal. It would be the last I would spend with Mr. Rochester.

I entered to find St. John and Mr. Rochester sitting opposite each other, each silently sizing up the man across from him. Their breakfasts were untouched; it seemed I was not the only one without an appetite this morning.

Both men rose to greet me, and Mr. Rochester smiled a little at my appearance.

"Ah, Miss Eyre, do join us."

"Thank you, sir, but am I not hungry," I said, wringing my hands. I did not want to say goodbye, but I was eager to have the theatrics of parting finished. I did not look at him, and focused instead on keeping my voice steady, my eyes dry. "I must leave Thornfield today."

"No, you won't."

I had expected such stubbornness from him. I persisted.

"Yes, sir I—"

"Mr. Rochester is right, Jane," St. John interrupted. "We shall not leave today."

I looked up from my hands and was met with anger on the faces of both men—cool, frustrated fury on my cousin's visage, and barely checked rage mixed with triumph from Mr. Rochester.

"The storm last night has made the roads from Thornfield unfit for travel by carriage, I am told," my cousin continued.

"Mr. Howard was lucky to make it out. He insisted on visiting an ailing member of the congregation early this morning and left on foot before anyone could stop him," Mr. Rochester said, chuckling wryly.

"Indeed." St. John did not share in his adversary's humor. "Mr. Rochester has insisted we stay here until the roads are clear."

My cousin did not relish uttering these words, but I could have embraced him gladly for them. Dizzy and speechless with relief, I could only manage a quiet remark to Mr. Rochester about "not being too much trouble."

"It would never be too much trouble for you, Jane." His eyes flicked to the man across the table. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have matters of business to attend to." My master left the room, our hands brushing briefly, each almost unconsciously reaching for its partner, as he passed me in the doorway.

I took a chair next to my cousin. We ate in silence. I had nothing to say to him after last night's cruel orders, and he sulked over his brief defeat.

__

_There are guests in the house. I heard their strange voices, their unfamiliar steps. There had not been guests. He had not had guests here, except for her, for a while. He does not like company._

__

__

_When I awoke from a heavy sleep—I sleep a lot these days—he was there again. I could sense his presence preternaturally before I even opened my eyes. He looked like he had slept in that chair—badly._

__

__

_I sat up slowly in bed, smiling, showing him I did not care that he glowered at me and did not return my good morning, before he left. Let him sulk and stew over his unwanted guests._

_But I do not eat the breakfast Grace brings, nor move to put on clothes. I have decided I will not eat or wear anything of his. It is food and clothing given out of necessity, not out of care or love. He does not care whether I live or die, but I can choose._

_It is the one choice I have left._


	22. Imprisoned

Though Mother Nature prevented St. John from tearing me from my home and my friends, my cousin remained determined to starve me of my love for them. He never left me to myself, lest I search for my master and begin some clandestine affair. I believe St. John had so little faith in my moral strength he was sure I had already agreed to marry Mr. Rochester in secret. His likely imaginings were far more vivid than reality. Mr. Rochester and I had never even embraced since my initial return. We never could, for as long as his wife lived.

But St. John did not seem to care about the agony my master and I suffered in silence, all for the sake of a mad woman down the hall. He was only concerned about returning to the study we had begun at Moor House and insisted in practicing Hindustani with me.

"You must prepare for our journey," he insisted.

When I told him I did not wish to go to India, he simply replied, "But you will go, because God wishes it of you. I wish it of you, and you will be my wife."

Fortunately, Mr. Rochester was not near at the time and could not hear St. John's words; I fear they would have aroused him into a violent untamable passion.

When both St. John and Mr. Rochester were in the room, there were no speeches from either party towards the other, leaving me to fill the awkward silences and gaps in conversations.

I would have chastised them both privately for such immature behavior, but, alas, I could only get St. John alone.

When I requested he act more cordial to his host for putting us both up in such awful weather, he said he was "thankful and grateful" for the roof over his head, but that it had only been offered out of necessity. He had "nothing to say" to Mr. Rochester and "did not wish to socialize with such a libertine character." He also kept insisting we would both leave Thornfield as soon as the roads were clear enough for a carriage.

Both my cousin and my master watched the weather carefully, but the only view offered by the window panes was one of blinding whiteness.

The evening of our second day of seclusion, I was preparing for bed, taking down my hair, when I heard a soft knock on my door.

"Who is it?" I asked, a bit cross, sure it was only St. John checking to make sure I had gone straight to my room .

"Jane," came the reply, not in my cousin's harsh and clipped voice, but in the welcoming baritone of my master. "Open the door."

Forgetting propriety for a moment, I hastened to open the door and ushered Mr. Rochester quietly into my chamber.

"Sir, what is it?" I whispered in worry, once the door had been secured behind him.

He smiled weakly. "Nothing, my fairy. I only wished to see you." He looked tired, pale and wan. Being trapped inside the hall's tense atmosphere had taken its toll on him as well.

I smiled, hoping to soothe him. "And I am happy to see you, too, sir. It has been too long since we have been able to speak freely."

"Yes, that insufferable cousin of yours," he grumbled.

"He has spoken to you of his reason for coming here?" I was curious to know how much my cousin had told him that first evening.

"Yes. He means to part us, dear friend, to force you one way, and me another. Do not fear. I will not allow such a man—a hardhearted man, who has never loved, not as I love—to take you from me."

Mr. Rochester spoke with the quiet, unperturbed assurance of a man who knows he will triumph. But he did not know my cousin, and I feared I must correct him.

"St. John is a stubborn man—cold, but stubborn. And he will not give in easily."

"Nor do I, Jane."

"He will tell Mr. Howard of the past, of Bertha. You will be thrown into disgrace, or worse."

"I have suffered more at the hands of greater men." He did not look at my face as we spoke, but stared out into the snowstorm whipping at my dark window.

"The storm will not last forever, and then I must go with St. John." I came up behind him and took his hand. It was cold. "I could not bear it if you were to suffer disgrace because of me."

He scoffed and flung my hand back at me.

"Oh, it would not be because of you, Jane, but because of my own mistakes, my own past that trails me like a death shroud! Mr. Rivers has made that much clear. You confirm it by choosing to leave with him."

"He would tell Mr. Howard! And if Mr. Howard did not listen, he would surely go to higher authorities! He would do his best to ruin you, and all of Thornfield!"

"Can you not see it is already ruined? This hall is the home of a lunatic and a foolish old man!" His voice lost its whispering tone. "And you—Jane—the one light in such darkness, purity amid such filth—do you love me at all?"

"Yes!"

"And yet you would leave me, as you left before!"

"I could not stay!" I cried, choking back tears. His words had stung me to the core of my heart, where guilt over my abandonment still festered, dark and heavy. "It would not have been right!"

"Only you are always worried about such disgrace, Jane. Why? Am I that unfit, as I am? Would it sully you to love such a sinner?"

We now stood several feet apart, shouting at each other. Mr. Rochester's face flickered briefly in the light from the window, but then I could not see him. It was like arguing with a shadow.

"I do love you—but what of your wife? What of the wrong you would do her, if I were to stay? She does not deserve it. "

"Do not bring mentions of Bertha into this, Jane," I heard him hiss. "You speak of things you do not know."

But I could not stop. Spitefulness had buried itself in my heart and replaced any feelings of tenderness I had at the beginning of the conversation.

"Do you care nothing for her sufferings? Or for mine?" I cried. "Only that we must be kept here, with no choice in the matter! You treat us both as though we were playthings, only to be sometimes cared for!"

I saw his shadow stiffen; I knew I had hurt him. Mr. Rochester turned swiftly on his heel and walked towards the door.

"I suppose that is one of the sermons of your holy and pious husband-to-be," he said. "Indeed, you seem to care more for the feelings and opinions of a cold saint and a feverish lunatic than for me! Perhaps it is them you love!"

He left the room, slamming the door behind him.


	23. Small Victories

He visits once a day. Either in the morning or at night. He comes only to make sure I am still here and still alive.

But today, he comes just before dinner and again at tea and again—twice again in the evening. He says nothing each time. He sits in the chair and glowers, brooding. 

He is not getting what he wants. I smile wider at his misery, but I do not touch him, do not do anything to provoke him now. I must be sly, I must be secret and quiet and good if I am to escape. Let them think I am sick, weak and irrational. Let them think that until I disappear into the night.

But before he could come back a final time to lock me in for the night, I had another visitor. A man I did not recognize.

He was pale, paler than I, and I have been locked away from true sunlight for so long my skin has turn yellow and my bones have gone soft. This man seemed to glow with paleness, to harbor a white light from within that shown through his skin like moonlight.

He entered so quietly, drifting in like a shadow, that I did not hear him and Grace did not wake. It was not until while laying in bed, concentrating on my breaths and Grace's breaths, that I noticed a third person breathing in the room.

I turned my head and watched him from behind a curtain of my hair.

He looked timid and frightened, yet powerful. I had seen that look once before on the face of a girl who had come to this room.

I did not fly at him as I had at her. I did not have the strength. I was determined to languish away.

He came closer, then stopped short when he noticed Grace in the corner. I did not move or laugh or tell him she was asleep. He did not move. He stayed tense and still, ready to sprint away, until Grace let out a giant snore like a bull and turned away from the fire, still asleep.

He let out a barely audible sigh of relief and carefully sat in the chair beside my bed. I watched him watch me, but his face was unreadable. I could not tell whether he was here to harm or help me, so I did nothing.

I suppose he was satisfied that I was asleep, because after a few moments he relaxed and closed his eyes. He began muttering something like a chant, or a prayer. Something I remembered from a long ago childhood but had not heard in more than 30 years.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .

He uttered the words with such fervency that I felt compelled to join him. I struggled to move my mouth in recitation of the phrases, but my lips were too chapped and cracked, my tongue too dry.

"...Thy will be done on earth as it is . . .

Too tired to fuss, I closed my eyes and moved my fingers over to where his hand rested on the bed. His hand was cool and dry. I squeezed his fingers, and his voice hitched at the contact. But he continued . . .

"...forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those . . .

I slept, carried away from the tower, for a brief time on an undulating sea of whispered prayer.

When I awoke again, the pale man was gone.

When my jailer comes back for the last time that day to lock the door, he asks Grace if I have eaten.

No sir, she says. She will not eat. She does not look up from her mending as she says this. I am in her charge, but it is of no consequence to her whether I eat or not. She will still be paid and will still be imprisoned with me.

You must make her eat, Grace, he snaps at her.

Maliciously, he will keep me alive just so he can keep me. A butterfly, a specimen in a jar, lined up on the shelves of the library. This one I found in the Orient, he tells her, this one in the Mediterranean, this one in the Alps. This one is from the West Indies, he will tell her.

But I am no insect. I will escape, or I will die.

I have tried, sir, I hear Grace say. I cannot force her.

Then I will, he says. He takes a crust of bread from a tray and comes towards me. I force myself forward to meet him. I will not shrink from him, though I am weak. He, who is master of this hall, will not master me.

Eat Bertha. He thrusts the bread to my lips. I resist the urge to bite off his fingers.

Eat, he says, pushing the crumbling loaf harder against my mouth. I clench my jaw and stand toe to toe, eye to eye with him. I am as tall as he is.

He is surprised, scared of my defiance. He thinks and he waits for me to make the next move, so that he will have a reason to strike me. He would like to hit me. Even now, I can see he is restraining himself from forcing open my mouth and cramming the bread down my throat.

But he does not. I suppose he remembers the company he is entertaining downstairs. Heaven forbid they hear me, and wonder. 

He tosses the bread into the fire and yells at Grace to clean up the mess.

He locks the door again. I am winning, by small victories.


	24. Against My Will

That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. My heart was in anguish, sore over the harsh words my master and I had exchanged. By morning, my pillow was soaked with tears. I came to breakfast feeling pale and weary with little appetite for food or conversation.

But if St. John noticed my red eyes or had heard the argument between myself and Mr. Rochester the night before, he said nothing. He only seemed to eat his ham and toast with more relish than he had in the previous days. When he rose to leave for the library, he told me to come with him.

Mr. Rochester did not come down for the meal.

_I am awoken by the rattle of curtains being pulled back. Someone is making a great deal of noise. They move in a brisk and hurried manner, buzzing about the room like a mosquito. I open my eyes, wincing as the sunlight from the open windows makes my head throb._

_The doctor has come this time. They mutter to each other, him and the doctor, but I cannot tell what they are saying. I listen hard, strain my ears so intently that I do not notice Grace has bound my hands and feet until it is too late._

_I pull at my bindings and fight. I almost slip out—but Grace yells for help and he comes. He hits me once, twice, across my jaw—hard, stinging slaps that rattle my teeth and make my head pound harder. Then he walks to the window, smokes his cigar._

_There is a bowl of something in the doctor's hands as he approaches my bed. He puts a spoon full of it, gray and lumpy porridge to my mouth. I pull at my bindings and set my jaw closed tight against such ministrations._

_But Grace comes, strong and sober for once. She pries open my mouth and holds back my tongue and teeth for the doctor to force the watery mixture down my throat. I sputter and spit it back at him and struggle against my captors. But the doctor only wipes his face and prepares another spoonful._

_I snarl and spit the gruel down my face and nightgown, snort it up my nose and feel it pool on my cheeks and sting my eyes. I pull at my bonds until my wrists and ankles are rubbed raw. But the doctor and Grace continue._

_He does not help them, only stands in a corner of the room, watching, waiting for them to finish. I catch a glimpse of his face once in between mouthfuls. It is tired and without feeling._

_I hate his unfeeling disinterest, his slouching lazy figure in the corner, and his eyes staring at the toes of his boots and checking the hour on his watch, waiting for his responsibility to be over. This hatred is deep, dark and hot as childhood summers. Hate is burned onto my being like the seared imprint of the attic key on my palm._

_When the bowl is empty, the doctor and Grace stop. Though most of the porridge was spilt on the bed, my nightgown and my hair, I swallowed a few mouthfuls against my will. I will purge myself of them later. Grace begins to untie me and wipe off my face. I look up to snarl at my complacent captor, but he has gone._

After breakfast, I searched the first and second floors of the house for Mr. Rochester, but I could not find him. He was not in his chamber or his study. He could not be in the gardens, as they were buried under insurmountable snowdrifts and ice. Only St. John occupied the library.

I was summoning the courage to defy Mr. Rochester's previous orders and search the third floor, when I saw my master coming down the stairs from that corridor, looking distraught and bleary-eyed. My heart softened; he had not had an easy night either.

"Sir," I greeted him softer. His eyes grew even wider and wilder as he noticed me. He had not expected me here.

"Jane?" His voice was tired and hoarse. "How do you do this morning?"

"I am well, sir—though you do not look as though you are very well at all. Indeed, you look ill. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes," he said, absently, moving to go past me.

He thinks I am still mad at him, I thought. Though we had quarrelled, our disagreement was not worth avoiding each other, particularly when he looked so overwrought. I put a hand on his arm to stop him and kindly asked my question again.

He sighed, as if letting the weight of worlds out in that one breath and sank onto the steps.

"'Tis Bertha," he muttered after several minutes of silence during which he struggled to compose himself. "She will not eat."

I could see that he was clearly worried about his wife. Such concern for a woman who had caused him so much trouble made my heart swell with tenderness and compassion.

I took both of his hands in mine.

"Have you sent for the doctor? Can anything be done for her?"

"Carter's come and tried," he said, his voice brittle with emotion. "I fear there is nothing that can be done."

He let out a great, shuddering breath. "My God—what has this life become?" he cried, wetting my hands with his tears.

I sat on the stairs beside him, and pulled him to me, soothing him and letting him weep out his sorrows and sufferings. How could one person cause so much pain? 

I kissed the dark head that rested on my shoulder. "Perhaps she will get well yet. You must trust in God and his will."

He lifted his head, wonder in his eyes.

"You amaze me, every day, Janet," he said. "How you manage to have such faith and strength— how you show such kindness for a woman who has done nothing but cause you pain!"

"It is not her fault. She should not be blamed, and you should not blame yourself, sir. Some things are not anyone's fault, and cannot be helped." I whispered, averting my eyes from his searching gaze.

But his face was suddenly very close to mine, close enough to see all the delineations of dark and light in his eyes—grays and blacks and browns and umbers and golds. I could count on forever.

"Thank you," he said. Then he kissed me, and I could not form any more words or clever replies, only take in the overpowering presence of him, soft and warm and rough. My body was not my own. Against my will, I closed my eyes; my hands, bewitched by some foreign spirit, pulled his head closer to mine and my fingers wound themselves through his hair. I could not breathe except to breathe in his scent of grass, musk, salt and cigar smoke. I was reeling, drowning, and yet more alert and alive than I had felt in days.

The unexpected touch of his tongue on my lips brought me back to myself and where I was. I sprang back from the embrace and turned from him, shocked and ashamed at what I had done.

"I am sorry, Jane," I heard him say in a voice as breathless as my own. I looked at him. His eyes were troubled and repentant, his face still flushed from our kiss. I had a shameful stab of longing to kiss him again. It was too stuffy and cramped here; the air was too heavy. I had to get away.

"Good day, sir," I blurted, barely curtsying in my efforts to run and hide my stinging eyes, wet with tears.


	25. A Visitor

Grace releases my wrists and tugs at my gown to take it off. For once I let her. It is dirty, and I am tired.

She retrieves another gown from the clothes press while I stand naked and shivering in the cold attic.

I am still alive. I am still here. Dying, escaping is hard and will take longer than I thought. I vent my frustration at this wait with a few silent tears, which I wipe away quickly in shame.

What you crying for? Grace asks as she slips a clean gown over my head. You brought it on yourself, girl. Let's find something for your wrists. Stay here.

She leaves.

The door is unlocked. I could run. I can escape, so easily.

But as I reach the door and open it, I find the pale man standing there, waiting to come in.

He looks startled, but tells me hello. I do not return his greeting, but glare and wait for him to leave so I may go.

But he only stares back.

When I lift my hand to strike him, to push him out of the way, he does not flinch, does not hit me. In fact, he does not move at all.

I am not strong enough to force him. I am so tired and cry a little more. But this does not matter to him either. He is a statue, icy stone, immovable and unbreakable. I envy him. 

Come, let us sit, he says, entering the room and closing the door. He sits in a chair by the fire, takes a book from his pocket. 

If I ran, would he try to stop me? He has not hurt me . . . but I do not know what would happen if he was angry. I am afraid of him, in a way I have never been afraid of anyone before. I put my hand on the doorknob.

Sit, Bertha, he says, looking at me again.

I do not move. I cannot. I am paralyzed. So close to freedom and I am paralyzed.

Come Bertha. He stands and takes my wrist, his fingers wrapping around the blisters there. I hiss and jerk away, running to a corner before he can capture me fully.

But the pale man does not come after me, not as others would have done. He looks alarmed, and I stare back equally confused, sucking on my wounds to lessen the pain.

Grace comes in. She bats my wrists away from my mouth and scolds me; she does not see him. I wince as she dabs salve on my sores and she clucks her tongue. I watch him watch us from over Grace's broad shoulder.

How was she injured? he says. Grace spins around so suddenly that she drops the salve pot. It shatters on the floor in a lumpy mess of crockery. I giggle at her confusion and the mess and she boxes my ears.

You're not supposed to be up here, sir, Grace tells the pale man. She stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. The master does not permit guests on the third floor. You'd best be leaving now.

How was she injured? he asks again. He stares her down and does not move.

Did it to herself, Grace says.

I did not! I did not! I want to say—but before I can, he says it for me.

She did not. She could not.

Grace shrugs and moves to clean up the mess. I scuttle around to my bed and sit to watch what the man will do next.

He reaches into another pocket in his coat and takes out a small bag instead of a book. It jingles as he sets it on the rough table beside him.

Tell me, he says. What has Mr. Rochester done to her?

Grace stops from gathering the broken crockery and looks at the bag on the table. She looks as she does just before she's about to get another jug of porter. Thirsty. Grace has not had any strong drink in a long time. 

She sits at the table, leaving the mess on the floor, and talks. He listens, passing over a coin from the bag every once in a while, which Grace takes. I watch and listen, as she tells him what he wants. It must be better than anything he was reading in that book, because he listens for a long time. I fall asleep to the sound of coins clinking in Grace's wide palms.


	27. Discovered

I ran to the drafty servants' hall and pressed close to the window, letting the icy wind cool my flushed cheeks. I could still taste him. If I closed my eyes, I could feel him too, my lips and hands tingling from the memory, heat flickering in my lower belly, a tightening. Anticipation of more.

How Mr. Rochester had looked at me after we'd kissed! I longed to make him look that way again, only replacing his regret with joy. I longed to kiss him and feel no shame.

As long as Bertha lived, my wants were selfish, shameful, impossible.

But she mightn't live for much longer, came a dark and cool voice in my mind.

I instantly quashed the sinful hope of her demise. No. If I was to remain near Thornfield Hall, I must not think of such things. I must remember my place, or I must go.

I sat by the window in the servants' hall until I heard the clatter of the cook coming in. I would have to finish my grieving in a more private place.

I took solace in the dark and empty library, ensconcing myself on one of the window seats with my escape book, as if I were a ten-year-old child again. If I turned the lamps low and shut the curtains, I could almost believe I was back in my little corner at Gateshead—only this time my imaginative rambles would not be disturbed by anyone. No Aunt Reed, no Eliza or Georgiana, no vicious John.

"Jane?" came a voice, so calm and unexpected I dropped my book. It clattered to the floor, giving away my hiding place.

The curtains drew back and my cousin stood in front of me.

"Why were you hiding? Who from?" St. John asked.

"No one," I lied. "I needed to get away for a while. Being shut in the house for so long is beginning to vex me. I wish the garden paths were fit for walking."

"It is too cold, and all the paths will be only mud and ice," he said, admonishing me for my fancy. "Look, there: that tree has lost half its branches."

He pointed to the horse chestnut tree, once split by lightning, now ravaged by the ice storm. Its branches, blackened and weak with disease, had snapped and fallen across the path. The trunk of the tree tilted precariously to one side, as if deciding how to fall and suffer the least injury.

"It will have to come down in the spring," St. John continued. "It's too dangerous for a garden, on the edge of toppling like that."

"Yes." But agreeing to such a thing made me sad. Thornfield, once my home, was changing into a place I did not recognize, tree by tree, hour by hour.

My cousin looked paler than usual, even a little ill and agitated. I asked him if everything was all right.

He seemed to consider the question heavily, before saying, "You must leave Thornfield, Jane."

His stubbornness exasperated me, but I would not kowtow to him. "I cannot marry you, St. John and go to India. I do not love you."

"What do you know of Mrs. Rochester?"

I had not expected this question. Though I had been living with the daily knowledge of the woman's existence for weeks, the mention of the wife, moments after such an intimate moment with the husband, made me start and flush.

"Only that the poor woman is mad . . . and cannot be helped," I stammered.

"Have you never seen her?" my cousin asked pointedly. "Have you seen how she lives?"

When I had last visited her quarters, I had been too shocked at the revelation of Mr. Rochester's secret to remember the details of the room or its occupant, only that she had raged against entrapment and flung herself at anyone who might snare her.

"Once," I said. "On the day of the wedding."

My cousin had the courtesy to look momentarily uncomfortable at the mention of that day, but then pressed on.

"I have seen her many times. She is not well."

I was astonished he had ventured into parts of the estate I had no knowledge of. But he would go to India to minister. Perhaps he considered Bertha only practice for the converting he would do abroad.

"I expect that she is not. She is a lunatic," I said.

"There is more wrong with her than just her mind, Jane. She is sickly, and thin. The rooms in the tower are drafty. The few moments I was there I could see her shivering with the cold."

This image sent a pang to my heart, but I held my head high as I defended my master. "You should tell Mr. Rochester. He does not spend much time in the tower. Bertha is in Grace Poole's care. I am sure he would like to know, so that he may send for the doctor and perhaps move her to another room. He—"

"Mr. Rochester is well aware of Bertha's condition and the state of her rooms," St. John interrupted me. "Missus Poole said he comes frequently during the day and night."

"Well then, perhaps he is trying to help and Bertha is uncooperative." I grasped at any defense I could muster for Mr. Rochester and for my friendship with him.

St. John's blue eyes glowed with righteous anger. "Helping her by imprisoning her? Tying her down so that she may be force-fed rotten porridge? By beating her?" 

What madness was he talking of? What he said could not be true. I had seen Mr. Rochester, frustrated, depressed and truly sorry his wife was unwell. My eyes burned hot with angry tears at my cousin's words, but I would not submit in front of him.

"You do not know him St. John—and yet you would blaspheme him—and me, as his friend, with the lies and gossip of servants. I will not— "

"I have seen evidence of his neglect myself!" he hissed, wagging a finger at me. "I have seen her wounds, watched her shiver in the cold. It is not lies or servants' gossip, Jane. You would see it for yourself, if you were to visit her."

But I would not stand and listen to such lies, such biased slanderings against the man I— I turned to go. "I do not need proof. I know Mr. Rochester and trust what he says is true. That is faith, St. John. Faith in friends."

"And you and Mr. Rochester are only friends?" I heard him say softly.

I met his probing gaze.

"Yes," I lied, though I knew instantly he had seen all. My omniscient cousin.

"Friends, who behave as lovers, feet from the bedroom of the true wife!" he yelled, his tall frame shaking with rage. "Such an association—such actions! It is blasphemous and a shame in God's eyes! It is a shame in my eyes!"

He turned his back, straining to control himself. I had not seen St. John display such anger before, not even when I first left Moor House to return to Thornfield. I reached out to comfort my cousin, but he did not let me. When he looked up again, he was calm and cold. A man of God.

"As a curate, I feel it is my duty to warn you against such associations. If you continue, you will find yourself in danger in this life, and in the devil's company in the next."

He left the room.


	28. Escape

The creak of the door wakes me up. 

I turn too quickly—what if it is him?—and fall out of the armchair where I fell asleep. My head spins and pounds, and my legs and arms ache with stiffness. But at least I am warmer, sitting by the fire. I see the shadow of skirts in its glowing light.

It is not him. 

The feet at level with my eyes are a woman's. Small plain boots disappear and reappear from under a grey skirt in tiny whispering steps.

It is not Grace.

Here, she says in a low voice. She kneels and I see her face. 

It is her.

She grips my arms to help me up. I snarl and pull away as her fingers come in contact with my injured wrists. She also skitters away, jumps almost to the door, as if she has been hurt, too.

We stare at each other from across the room. I take in her grey dress, small figure, plain clean face. It is a determined face, despite her weak chin, mousy hair and pale skin. I resolve to look just as steely as I watch her survey me—my soiled nightgown, yellowed skin, long and gangly limbs, bruised face.

The door opens behind her. I could easily push her out of the way. She, who has been a reason for my imprisonment, will block my freedom no longer.

I start for the door, but she is quick too, and runs from me. I reach and grab her arm as tightly as I can, pulling her into the room. Crouching in front of the door, I block her escape, as I have been blocked before. 

Her determination wavers; there is another emotion under it—fear. She is also scared of me—of what I will do. 

Silly naive girl. I will show her what to be frightened of. Then she'll run, and I can run too. 

I hold out my wrist, red and raw, and tell her it was him. She frowns and shakes her head.

I pull down the neck of my nightgown, make her put her fingers in the bruises on my neck and my face—him! But she shies away, disgusted. I count my ribs for her and show her older scars, ones from before she came, across my stomach, my hips, my legs, my chest. Him. Him. Him. 

But she shakes her head no, does not understand. She will not be taught. I scream in frustration.

A hand from behind clamps over my mouth, cuts off my wail. He grabs my waist and pulls me out of her way into the hallway outside the room. I struggle and bite at his fingers, but he holds fast.

Jane!? he says, as she slips past into the hall, runs down the stairs to a freedom that was supposed to be mine.

Distracted, he lets his grip on me loosen. As thin as I have become, I slither out easily and run down the stairs.

Bertha! 

But I pay no heed. At the foot of the stairs, I do not follow her, but dart around a corner and into the first room.

The library. It is dark, but warm; a low fire smolders in the grate. I dart in between a pair of shelves and hide, careful not to walk too loudly.

The door opens. I hold my breath. It could just be a servant, or it could be him. I cannot tell.

Jane?

It is not him. But I know that voice.

I peep around the corner of my hiding place and confirm my suspicions. The pale man, the one who visited me and murmurs prayers out a book. I let out a sigh of relief.

He turns around quickly, too quickly for me to run back to my hiding place.

Bertha? He is confused. Why are you here?

Steps in the hall. I put my finger to my lips and tell him to hush. He can hide here with me for a while, but he must not give us away. Not before we escape.

I grip his arm and try to lead him to one of the chairs, but he will not come.

You are sick. You must be in bed, he says speaking loudly and close to my face. You should go back to bed. Do you understand?

I grind my teeth in frustration and bite back a scream. I understand! But he does not! I cannot go back there!

Come. He pulls me toward the door.

No! I plant my feet firmly in the carpet, so that he cannot budge me.

I will call a servant. He moves for the door.

But before he can ruin my plans, I dart in front of him, grab the book out of his hand and run to the fireplace.

Bertha? What are you doing? 

I throw the book into the smoldering fire and watch the dry pages curl and blacken.

Bertha! I look up to see what he will do next. But he does nothing, only looks hurt and sad. I am instantly sorry.

I step forward to apologize, as Grace comes through the door to lead me back upstairs.


	29. Fettered Amongst Our Hands

"I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved – your harem inmates among the rest. I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred."

– Jane Eyre, Chapter XXIV

I was trapped. 

I ran down the stairs, ran for my cloak and bonnet from my room, ran passed Mary and George, ran out the servants' door, ran through the garden to the horse chestnut. I could not run further. 

Trapped.

Ice and snow blocked the garden paths. To go back and take another route would mean running into my cousin, or Mr. Rochester, close behind me after he and Bertha—

The images of her bruises, her thin, sickly figure and hollow face, floated through my mind. I shut my eyes against the memory, but it only became more vivid and closer. 

Though I had often protested against her imprisonment, a part of me still thought of Mr. Rochester's wife as the monster who had torn my wedding veil and tried to burn us in our beds. A part of me had agreed with Mr. Rochester. She deserved to be locked away.

But Bertha was only a sick woman. There was no reason to be afraid of her. There were others to fear and to love.

My knees gave out and I sank to the ground next the horse chestnut, leaning against the tree's wet and blackened trunk .

The air was crisp with the silence only heavy snows bring. No birds sang; they had flown south ages ago. I had only visited the garden in the summer months, when moss dotted the paths and insects buzzed lazily to and from each brightly-colored bloom. In the winter, from the windows of the hall, the garden had always appeared a glittering and pristine fairy wonderland, tucked under a blanket of ice and snow. 

But St. John had been right. The paths were muddy, the plants had died and now everything decayed. The chestnut had seen the worst of the storm; what had appeared from the window to be only branches was actually half of the trunk, scattered in pieces in the snow. The tree would not last the night. I leaned into the cold, dead flesh of the trunk and whispered, "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Jane? Where are you going?"

Mr. Rochester appeared on the garden path, breathing heavily, wrapped in a winter cloak with his head uncovered. He, too, had rushed out in a hurry.

"You cannot go yet, Janet," he said in a teasing voice. "It is still too cold to travel to the schoolhouse. The ice will melt tomorrow and then you can return to your pupils."

I did not rise, turning my face toward the tree trunk once more. I must leave. I must find the will to leave. 

When Mr. Rochester saw I would not come to him, he became more serious and approached me. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I need not have the strength to refuse his help, to shun one more moment of closeness before I must go. 

"Come Jane—I—come back to the house. There is nothing to fear anymore. Bertha has been confined to her room. She will not get out. She will not hurt you."

I shook my head. No. She would not hurt me.

"And I promise I will not touch you again. I am sorry for my conduct on the stairs. It was wrong of me. Do you forgive me for that?"

I nodded my agreement quickly, while trying to avoid the memory of the kiss—had that only been hours before?—and the violent emotions it stirred in me.

"Then come inside." Mr. Rochester tugged gently at my hand.

But I would not. I could not ignore what I had seen and heard any longer. I pulled my hand from his tight grasp. "Goodbye, Mr. Rochester." 

More swiftly than I had thought possible, Mr. Rochester swung around in front of me, blocking my path, and pinned me against the trunk of the horse chestnut. His face was inches from mine, but there was no tenderness in his gaze—only fierce, passionate anger.

"No—no Jane," he growled through gritted teeth. "You will not leave! You will not leave me again!"

"Let me go!" I tore myself from his grasp, but he came after me just the same. Unable to go far in the deep snow, I flung my arms in front of my face, lest he strike me.

But he did not.

I put down my hands. My master's face crumpled in confusion and hurt.

"Jane—I," he said hoarsely. "I would—I am sorry—but I would never—"

"Bertha."

He sat against the tree trunk as if unaware of the wet snow and cursed bitterly. "She brought it upon herself."

"Edward! How could you be so cruel?" I cried.

He broke down at my reply. I think up until that moment, he had believed that I had not known. 

"Jane, forgive me," he sobbed violently. "I did not mean it . I did not know what to do."

"You should care for her," I said.

"Care for such a violent woman?"

"St. John says she—" I began.

"So your cousin has visited her, too?" he scoffed, clenching his fists. "And has he, your pious, handsome preacher, been able to make her eat? To stop her from stealing? To keep her from injuring herself and others? Has he made her see the light of God? The great power of the Almighty?"

He paused, struggling to catch his breath in the icy air.

"I have tried, Jane. I did not mean to treat her badly. We did not mean to treat each other badly. She is so wild, so stubborn, I had to restrain her somehow. If I were to let her have run of the house, we would all be killed in our beds. And she cannot run—where would she go? Her family have no use for her and do not care if she lives so long as they get their due. Bertha lacks the sense to even wear a cloak in this weather," he moaned, picking up a handful of snow and letting it drip through his bare hands. "We are fettered here together by family obligations which have made us hate each other. I have tried not to hate her, but it is difficult. I have not the heart for forgiveness that you have, Jane."

"You do!" I said, but he continued as if he did not hear me.

"I do not mean to starve her, but she will not eat. I do not mean to hurt her, but if she has injuries, they are wounds sustained in battles over her safety and the safety of this household—Carter will attest to that fact!" He hung his head. "If your saintly cousin thinks he can do better, let him have her. I am tired."

I regarded Mr. Rochester in silence or a moment. I knew I leave go freely now, and I would, tomorrow. I moved closer and offered him my handkerchief to dry his tears, but he shook his head.

"You give me this as a parting gift? No. It is too pure. I would sully it with my tears of pity and hatred. Go. Leave and do not bother with how I suffer."

"Your tears would not sully me, sir, but I am unworthy to—"

"You are unworthy!" he scoffed. "Yet I am the one always being punished. So go, if you mean to leave." He set his jaw against further conversation.

Is this how it would always be? No matter how close we grew, wife or no, would we always to be separated by guilt and distrust? I stood and brushed the snow from my skirt. 

"I will be at the teacher's cottage for the night. I will pack my things and leave tomorrow. Please, do not tell St. John. I do not want him to follow me."

Mr. Rochester stood and walked away without looking at me.

It was not until I reached my cottage and had built up the fire that I noticed the tears on my cheeks. It had been so cold in the garden, they had frozen before I was aware of the emotion.


	30. Dreams

Desperate for distraction, I worked tirelessly into the night, packing my things and cleaning the teacher's cottage. I would remove all traces of my existence here.

He should be able to forget me easily, not like before. I should endeavor to forget him.

I was undisturbed that the night. Mr. Howard was still in the village tending to those marooned by the storm. It was very late when I finally collapsed into my narrow bed for the last time, exhausted from my work and the emotions of the day.

Almost as soon as I fell asleep, Hypnos, cruel goddess, drew me into a queer nightmare. In my dream, I was blind, but I believe I was at Thornfield. I felt the stone flags under my feet, the wooden stair banisters under my hands, the bindings of books in the library. But I could see none of it, though I strained my eyes for a picture. I stubbed my toes in every doorway, bumped into walls and started at every sound.

I called out for help in every room and listened closely for Mr. Rochester's deep baritone to respond. I sniffed the air for the scent of his cigar. But I could not find him as I groped and stumbled my way through every room.

I was so tired and about to give up, when I heard her. The sound of her strange laughter, close behind me. I swung round violently, preparing to defend myself against an attack—no one was there. The laugh came again, this time from another side, and closer. I groped in that direction, but could find nothing. She laughed again, and again and each time I sought to place her and each time she was not there. The "ghost of Thornfield" had truly become a phantom.

I ran from her. I ran, I tripped, I drug myself towards the hall's main doors, desperate for a way out of the darkness. But the hall itself had turned into a labyrinth and each turn only made me more confused. Exhausted, I cried out for help one last time—"Edward!"

As if by some miracle, I heard him answer.

"Jane." faint, practically a whisper, but I followed it and called out again.

"Edward?"

"Jane." This time it was stronger, louder. I saw a tiny pinprick of light in the distance.

I followed it, continuing to call out—"Edward!"—and listened for his reply—"Jane." I let his voice lead me closer to the light, which grew by degrees as I ran away from the darkness and her laughter.

"Edward?"

"Jane."

Dawn approached. The light was strong and bright now; it shone through a crack in the front doors. If I could only reach it, open the doors further and step into the morning, I knew I would find my love, my blindness would be cured and Bertha would pursue me no longer.

I ignored her laughter, so incredibly close, and ran to the doors, pulling at the heavy iron handles until they opened into a brilliant, fierce and frightening light—

I awoke, my heart pounding, my body sweaty and overheated from my dream. A dim orange and crimson filled up my distant window, hazy and flickering against the close darkness. I rose to watch the sunrise.

But this was not dawn. This was fire, coming from the direction of my former home.


	31. Fire

I should not have done what I did to him.

He was fond of that book. It was his favorite thing, the way my red dress was mine. Just because my favorite thing has been taken from me by my jailers is no reason for me to take something of his; he has not hurt me.

Perhaps I could find him a new book.

If I brought the pale man a new book, he would forgive me and help me. I could escape and go home, away from this cold English rain.

When Grace is asleep, I light a candle, stolen weeks earlier, and creep downstairs, shielding the flickering flame from the icy wind that blows through the hall. It has been a while since I've been downstairs at night, and I take several wrong hallways before I find the library.

The room is chilly, and in the moonlight, the shelves throw long shadows, like trees. A forest, like home, only freezing.

I set down my candle and pull books off the shelves. I open them, but they do not interest me. Most are pictures of flowers and animals I do not recognize. Why should I? I have never been beyond the walls of this prison. This house is my England.

My foot catches on something and I nearly fall.

A book, one I had not seen before. I pick it up and open it.

Some of the pages are covered in words I cannot read, but others have wonderful pictures on them.

A vast blue sea, tossing about a ship. Endless desert sands. Towering mountains of ice and snow so real looking I feel the cold in my bones. A small girl stands alone. A large castle, a dark monstrous shadow, looms in the background, ready to snatch her up and lock her away forever. I turn the page quickly, trembling and there is it: Home.

A red sun shines on a little yellow bungalow, thickly surrounded by trees and bouganvilla vines. A mango tree hangs heavy with fruit in one corner and in the sky, a brilliant emerald parrot flies. I run my fingers greedily over the colors – greens, pinks and oranges, as if I could transport myself to this place by touch. This is home.

This is the book for the pale man.

I take the book and candle and look for his room. He must be on the hall where all the guests usually stay.

I tiptoe past her door, careful not to wake her; if she alerts the servants I am done for. I walk even softer past his door, where I hear him awake and pacing back and forth. He calls out—Jane?

I scamper faster, down the hall and round the corner. I wait for him to open the door, look around then, go back inside. I am safe; if I am quiet, he will not come out again. I won't let him catch me.

I let out the breath I have been holding and open the door I am leaning against.

It is his room. I see his pale face outlined against the dark curtains at the window. I creep towards his bed.

I once said he was as pale as the moon, and now I imagine, just as cold, for I can see him shivering under his thin blanket. I shiver, too.

The fire has gone down—no, it has never been lit. No wonder he is so cold. I will tell Grace tomorrow and she will chastise see to it.

All I have is my candle; I hope it is enough. I touch the flame to the old pieces of kindling on the hearth and it produces a meager spark. There are some papers on the table and I twist these and lay them on the pile to burn as well. I build my pyre high and fan the flames with my hands, until heat fills the room and the fire becomes a great orange beast, roaring with life. When it is tall and wide, spreading up the chimney and unto the hearth, I step back and look at my efforts.

I am proud, but tired, and the heat makes me wish for a comfortable chair. I can show him my new book tomorrow, first thing when he wakes up. I sit in a chair next to him and open the book to the picture of my home. I lay my head next to it. The fire makes the colors dance and swirl . They are alive. I am home.

I wake at the sensation of heat and someone shaking me.

"Bertha. Bertha wake up."

I stir and lift my head. He is awake. The firelight shines bright on his face, catching the fear in his eyes. I grasp his hand. It's only me. Don't be afraid.

"We must leave this place. We must go."

My heart flies. "To a warm place? To home?"

I push the book in his direction, but he does not look at it. His determined eyes are on me. "Yes. Come."

He takes my hand.

And then, reader?

Together, we escape this castle of monsters. We leave the freezing winters and the locked doors and the cruel masters. He hastily packs a bag, and I know the way—through the servants' wing. They are too busy trying to quench the flames; they will not succeed.

On the road, we hail a passing carriage, which takes us to an inn, and then to the coast. Then there is a ship, an arduous voyage. He nearly dies from sickness, but I nurse him, as Grace nursed me. You cannot die until you see the sun as I have seen it, I tell him.

"Is it like the light of God?"

I nod. "And more."

We reach our new continent. I am never cold again.


	32. Fire

I dressed as quickly as possible, all the while keeping my eyes fixed on the growing orange light in the sky.

The walk from the teacher's cottage to the hall, which usually took only an hour, seemed to stretch for days, as I watched the sun rise in the sky, battling with the black smoke that darkened the sky like a death shroud.

I cried out as the great hall came into view. The entire top floor was alight, and the flames had already eaten their way through most of the battlements. My home would surely collapse.

A few villagers from nearby farms and the lower servants gathered in a huddle nearby, wringing their hands and watching the flames. I scanned their faces, muddled with ash and tears. They all seemed phantoms, borne out of the smoke. Where was George? Mary? St. John? Where was Mr. Rochester?

"Miss Eyre?" I turned to see an elderly couple, their nightclothes singed, faces dirty. I looked closer and realized it was George and Mary.

I rushed over in relief. "Mary—George! Are you all right?"

"Yes, miss," Mary replied through her tears. "Only George has hurt his foot." The elderly man leaned heavily on his wife, his left ankle bent to one side. 

I helped the trembling woman lead him to a bare patch of ground and settled them both there, so they might rest until a doctor could be found.

"Where is Mr. Rochester?" I asked, half-dreading the answer.

They were both silent, and shrunk away from my searching gaze. 

"Please tell me. The truth would be better than—" I stopped, sobs caught in my throat.

George glanced at his wife and then spoke in a voice raspy from smoke: "He went back, miss. He went back for her."

I turned as the top battlements of the house collapsed with a great crackling crash. Those around me gasped and screamed; Mary buried her face in George's shoulder and sobbed harder.

I did not stop to grieve. I ran towards the fire, though I knew no one inside could possibly be alive. The front courtyard was completely unapproachable now, filled with a fiery rain of smoke and ash. I heard voices calling for me to stop, but I did not heed them. 

My throat constricted against the smoke, but I continued on. I ran towards the back of the house to the servants entrance, praying it was still clear. If only I could find him before it was too late.

The entrance to the servants hall was also blocked by flames, but the kitchen door was still clear; the back of the hall was not as badly burned as the front.

"Jane!" A hoarse voice called out my name, but I ignored it and ran towards the open door. I had to get to him, had to find him.

"Jane!" The voice called again, closer. Two strong hands gripped my arm, my waist from behind. They held me back from the fire. I struggled against by my captor.

"Let me go!"

"Jane—he's gone! I'm sorry, he's gone!"


	33. A New Home?

"No!" 

I turned towards the apparition to attack him, but he caught my wrists.

"Let me go!"

"Jane! Jane!" 

Mr. Rochester gazed down at me, his face stern with grief.

He was here. His clothes were smoky and torn, his voice, hoarse and unfamiliar, and his face was ash-blackened and dirty. But he was here, alive and whole. I sobbed in relief.

Mr. Rochester gathered me in his arms and led me to a tree on the hillside, away from the funeral pyre on which I had been about to throw myself. We coughed and choked on tears and smoke and shivered as a cold rain began to fall.

I stroked his cheek, wiping away his tears and relishing the feel of his warm, living flesh under my hands.

"Jane. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Jane, I could not save him. I could save her. I could not save them."

I turned my gaze back to the house. The fire was beginning to die as the rain came faster and harder, clearing the air of smoke. As the ruins of the hall appeared, his words sank in.

Bertha was dead. St. John was dead. And Thornfield Hall was a blackened ruin.

Unable to gaze on the destruction any longer, I turned my face into Edward's neck and wept. We stood together like this for an age, watching as a home which had seen so much bittersweet happiness and so much pain crumbled into seething ashes.

Very little good ever comes of listening to servants' gossip. But one cannot help but overhear. 

I heard from several that the bodies of Bertha and St. John had been recovered in the same room. Knowing Bertha's violent nature and predilection for fire, it was assumed by many that she started the blaze in the room where St. John lay sleeping.

What ill will she might have meant towards my cousin, I do not know. Who can know the workings of the mind, especially a mind composed only of passion, devoid of logic? Perhaps she had misinterpreted St. John's actions towards her. Perhaps she simply despised everyone and everything around her. Perhaps she wanted what all humans desire—to escape the cages built for us, and instead, build ones of our own choosing.

Mr. Rochester and most of the servants from Thornfield had moved to Ferndean, a hunting lodge my master owned but seldom used. I accompanied them to help with funeral arrangements. The day after Bertha's burial, St John's body was to be taken to Moor House. He would be buried near the church where he had preached. I resolved to go as well, and grieve with my cousins.

I did not expect to return to Ferndean and Mr. Rochester.

Secretly, a part of me wished to return, if one can ever return to a time of past innocence. The Thornfield of old, before Bertha and St. John, before the arguments and hidden temptations, had been my home. I had loved it well. But it was gone.

As for Mr. Rochester, he avoided my attempts to talk with him. If I did stay, I was not sure how I would be welcomed by him or if he would welcome me at all.

I must make a new start and find a new home.


	34. Epilogue

Bertha's funeral was a simple service in the corner of the churchyard reserved for the Rochester family. A few prayers and solemn words.

Mr. Rochester and myself were the only ones besides the servants in attendance. No one spoke or cried as we threw our handfuls of dirt unto her grave. We were too weary of drama to weep.

Mr. Rochester and I elected to walk back to Ferndean. It was a cold, but sunny day. The ground was just beginning to soften into spring mud, and green buds had appeared on the trees. The air smelled fresh, of new beginnings.

But endings must happen first. Goodbye was on my horizon, but I approached it as slowly as possible, not speaking of it until we'd almost reached the house.

"So, where does this leave us, Jane?" Mr. Rochester said wearily. He sensed the end, too.

I bit my lip. "I will leave for Moor House tomorrow to accompany St. John back."

"Give my condolences to your cousins, Jane. It is a terrible thing to lose a sibling, especially a beloved one. They were close?"

"They were all they had in this world, for some time." I swallowed a lump in my throat.

"Your cousins are lucky to have you for company. And you are lucky, too, with such a welcoming family to go to."

So, he did not wish me to stay. We had grown too far apart, I thought, and nodded my reply to him. Speech was impossible.

"Your cousins, living alone as they do: Do they have anyone who looks in on them from time to time?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, glad for a turn in the conversation. "They have often written of another curate, a colleague of St. John's, whom I believe is quite fond of Mary. And Diana is already engaged to a colonel and will marry soon."

"And you, Jane, I suppose, will be left to marry or find your own way?"

"Yes—but I do not think I shall ever marry. I shall use my inheritance, travel perhaps."

The hollowness of my statements sank in. Diana, Mary and I would grieve over the loss of our brother, then they would eventually return to their lives and be happy. I would have to make my happy life from the beginning. I would be independent, comfortable, but ultimately, alone.

"Well, since you can go anywhere, heiress," Mr. Rochester said, teasing me as he used to. "Where do you think you shall begin your travels?"

I was dumb. I suddenly had no wish to go anywhere, except to where he was. But he did not want me. He was sending me away.

"I do not know, sir," I said finally.

"There are a great many places in this world, Jane," he said, pacing the garden as he talked. "I believe I have seen most of them—the glittering sands of Arabia, the grand castles of Bavaria, the canals of Venice. Each holds something unique and different." He held up a finger in warning. "Choose wisely before you settle on a new home."

I nodded again, swallowing my tears. I must make my own way, find a new home. Away from him.

"You must write, tell me of your travels," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"And—" he stopped, wiped mud from his boot on the grass and mumbled something under his breath.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I said‚—" he grimaced, "I said, I hoped you might visit with an old friend, if you ever happen to come to this part of the world again. You know you are welcome here."

"Am I?" I could barely conceal the hope in my voice.

"Yes," he said with an incredulous look. "In fact, I don't—I wish..." he trailed off again, staring into the distance, concentrating on something I couldn't see. I waited.

"Jane," he finally said. "I know—I know things—I know I haven't always been—blast it all!" He took a deep breath and turned to me, his gaze open and sincere. "I haven't always acted as I should have. But, when you're here, I feel it is possible for me to become a better person, because you believe it to be so. I know I have hurt you and you have witnessed me hurt others and for that, I am truly, deeply sorry. I have no right to ask you to stay, but I hope you will not forget me."

He was not banishing me. He wished me to stay.

Could I stay? Could I make a fresh start here and create a home, surrounded by so many ghosts?

He was here, standing in the spring mud with me, waiting for an answer. That was home.

"Ask me to stay," I said.

His dark eyes shone with cautious hope.

"Would you stay, Janet?"

"Gladly, sir."

Reader, I stayed. I returned to the teacher's cottage for a while and began lessons again in the following month. Of course, I visited Mr. Rochester often at Ferndean. We spent many a splendid hour together, talking of all sorts of things, and grew even closer than we had been at Thornfield, for there were now no secrets between us.

It was near autumn when Mr. Rochester asked me to marry him again. We lived together in Ferndean for a while after the wedding; we would have remained there permanently, I think, but it became too small for our growing family.

Soon after I found out I was with child, Edward and I made the decision to rebuild Thornfield. A taxing and arduous process, our plans stirred up old memories and new questions with the turning of the ashes. But our struggle was worth it to see our son—the very image of his father—take his first steps among the beginnings of the great hall which would someday be his.

Diana and Mary visit often, with their respective families. We return the visit once a year, to see them and to lay flowers on St. John's grave. Edward has long forgiven him of his misunderstandings. Indeed, who among us would be so cruel as to hold a grudge against the dead?

There is another grave we pay homage to every year, when the snows have blanketed the roads, making travel impossible. It seems only right to give her flowers in December; I think she would have appreciated them most then. As I place the red poppies on her frost-covered headstone, I can tell from Edward's face that he thinks them fitting. Even at a distance, the blooms stand out, like a pinprick of blood, until heavier snows come and bury the landscape once more.


End file.
